5ith  the   oompliraonts   of  the  author, 

H.   ™.    Shoemaker, 

26  "f.  53rd  St. ,  Hew  York  City. 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

THE  ETHEL  PARK  RICHARDSON 
AMERICAN  FOLKLORE  FUND 


Tales  of  The 
Bald  Eagle  Mountains 


il 


n  «« 

I* 


Tales  of  The 


IN  CENTRAL  PENNSYLVANIA 
y  Henry  W.  Shoemaker 


Author  of  "The  Indian  Steps  and  Other  Pennsylvania   Mountair 
Stories."  "Pennsylvania  Mountain  Verses,"  etc.,  etc. 


JJUustratefc 


PUBLISHED  BY 
The  Bright  Printing  Company,  Reading,  Pa. 


COPYRIGHTED,  1912 

All  rights  reserved 


ARGUMENT 


offering  still  another  vol- 
ume of  Pennsylvania  moun- 
tain legends,  the  author  has 
this  to  say  by  way  of  ex- 
tenuation. While  his  other 
books  contained  folk-lore 
gathered  at  random  in 
various  sections  of  the  cen- 
tral part  of  the  common- 
wealth, all  of  these  herein  were  collected 
along  the  "dark  and  sombre"  range  of  the 
Bald  Eagle  Mountains,  the  inspired  origin 
of  which  is  described  in  the  first  chapter. 
It  has  been  the  author's  aim  as  far  as  prac- 
ticable, to  give  one  legend  for  each  mountain 
in  the  chain,  as  far  as  the  Juniata,  where  the 
true  Bald  Eagles  come  to  an  end.  Most 
of  them  have  an  old-time  setting,  and  the 
greater  part  of  the  personal  note  which 
entered  into  some  of  the  tales  in  the  other 
volumes,  is  lessened. 

xiii 


876447 


Shortly  after  the  appearance,  in  Septem- 
ber, of  "The  Indian  Steps",  a  letter  was 
received  from  a  competent  critic,  asking  of 
the  author  the  perfectly  justifiable  question 
"just  what  proportion  is  pure  fiction,  and 
what  is  pure  fact".  Although  diligent  ef- 
fort had  been  made  to  elucidate  this  in  tne 
"explanatory  preface"  to  "More  Pennsylvania 
Mountain  Stories"  issued  last  March,  this 
query,  coming  from  one  of  the  writer's  oldest 
friends,  set  him  to  thinking  that  he  had  not 
made  himself  clear  enough.  In  all  the 
legends  he  has  tried  his  best  to  set  them  forth 
exactly  as  he  heard  them  from  the  old  peo- 
ple, putting  his  own  imagination  and  view- 
point far  into  the  background.  Unfortu- 
nately, in  most  every  case,  when  the  stories 
were  written  out,  they  seemed  to  lack  much 
of  the  charm  that  was  so  inherent  in  them 
as  oral  legends.  Try  as  he  might,  he  was 
never  quite  able  to  catch  that  atmosphere. 
Evidently  there  is  a  wide  gulf  between  a  tale 
that  is  passed  from  lip  to  lip,  and  a  purely 
literary  composition.  Or  else  the  writer  has 
failed  completely  as  a  chronicler.  If  they 
were  fiction  they  would  not  be;  the  world  is 

too  full  of  really  good  imaginative  literature, 
xiv 


In  "The  Indian  Steps,"  tale  IX  "The 
Dancing  Chairs,"  was,  when  the  writer  heard 
it,  the  most  fascinating  and  most  awe-awak- 
ening of  legends.  In  the  book,  it  came  dan- 
gerously near  to  the  commonplace.  Perhaps 
it  was  only  intended  to  be  told  by  a  pretty 
miss  in  an  old  livery  surrey  crossing  the 
Sugar  Valley  Mountains  on  a  moonless  night. 
It  was  an  orchid  which  could  not  stand  the 
sunlight  of  "cold  type." 

In  "More  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories" 
his  favorite  was  tale  XXVI  "Meeting 
Hermionie",  but  that  having  been  a  per- 
sonal experience  and  a  remarkable  one,  he 
was  unable  to  judge  it  in  completed  form 
as  was  done  with  stories  imparted  by  others. 
One  afternoon,  several  weeks  after  the 
publication  of  the  book,  the  author  was  day- 
dreaming in  his  buggy  in  front  of  a  har- 
ness-store in  a  Central  Pennsylvania  town 
when  he  heard  someone  calling  his  name.  He 
looked  up,  it  was  Hermionie,  just  as  black- 
eyed  and  winsome  as  in  the  days  when  she 
constituted  to  him,  pretty  much  all  of  the 
cosmos.  She  cheerfully  verified  the  story 
which  was  some  satisfaction,  one  can  be  sure. 


In  "Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories"  he  pre- 
ferred tale  I  "Why  the  Steiner  House  Patient 
Pulled  Through"  by  far  the  best.  It  possessed 
some,  but  not  by  any  means  all  of  the  eerie 
qualities  that  thrilled  him  when  he  heard  it 
in  the  hallway  of  the  old  hotel  in  Millheim, 
now  alas  burned  to  the  ground. 

In  the  present  volume  he  is  partial  to  tale 
X  "Conrad's  Broom",  yet  of  all  he  has  writ- 
ten it  lacks  more  of  the  marvellous  succinct- 
ness and  thrill  it  possessed  when  related  by 
a  grand  old  gentleman  whose  eventful  life- 
time at  its  close,  just  missed  ten  years  of  the 
century  mark!  We  can  only  say  that  the 
old  legends  may  have  lost  in  passing  through 
our  hands,  but  have  not  been  added  to  or 
trifled  with.  As  there  seemed  to  be  no  one 
else  bent  on  chronicling  and  preserving  them, 
the  author,  with  a  full  realization  of  his 
limitations,  has  "stuck  at  it."  Chief  among 
these  "limitations"  is  the  fact  that  the  time 
is  late  to  have  begun  collecting  Pennsylvania 
folk-lore  and  Indian  tales.  This  could  have 
been  done,  by  almost  anyone,  with  great 
thoroughness  a  hundred  and  twenty-five 
years  ago.  There  was  a  lull  after  all  the 
xvi 


uproar  of  the  Revolution  and  Indian  wars, 
yet  romantic  tales  were  rife.  But  no  one 
thought  of  collecting  such  things  then.  Peo- 
ple looked  upon  their  individual  lives  as  of 
little  consequence,  their  deeds  as  simple  duty. 
As  to  the  Indians  or  their  history,  they  were 
regarded  with  loathing  or  indifference. 
We  have  no  one  to-day  who  would  collect  the 
annals  of  English  sparrows  or  Cooper's 
hawks.  Fifty  years  ago,  even,  was  not  too 
late,  as  Indians  were  met  with  from  time  to 
time,  and  aroused  no  particular  attention; 
they  were  tolerated  as  itinerant  basket 
weavers  or  harvest-hands.  A  few  of  the 
original  frontiersmen  or  their  sons  were  then 
living  "up  in  eighty"  as  they  say  in  the 
mountains,  but  who  cared  to  catecize  them 
about  a  troublous  past?  A  new  war,  between 
North  and  South  was  beginning  to  absorb 
everyone's  attention.  When  the  present  writ- 
er came  upon  the  scene  "all  was  over",  but 
there  were  gleams  in  the  embers  of  romance 
and  folk-lore  that  showed  that  they  contained 
life.  He  was  able  to  learn  the  legends  from 
a  few  of  the  old  people,  who  were  boys  when 
there  were  still  borderers  and  Indians  whose 

xvii 


talk  was  interesting  enough  for  them  to  lis- 
ten to  and  remember. 

Incomplete,  and  lacking  the  "thrill"  most 
needed,  these  tales  are  an  honest  effort  to 
preserve  a  period  as  teeming  with  romance 
as  "when  the  world  was  young".  They  show 
the  wealth  of  folk-lore  the  Indians  stored  up, 
and  the  first  settlers  brought  with  them  from 
"over  seas",  from  Scotland,  the  North  of 
Ireland,  France,  the  Palatinate.  They  are 
worth  comparing,  at  any  rate,  with  the  folk- 
lore of  the  old  world.  In  some  of  them  the 
author  thinks  he  was  able  to  catch  on  the 
wing  a  passing  phase,  a  time  and  mode  of 
life  that  will  come  no  more.  Every  year 
death  has  wrought  havoc  with  the  "old 
folks",  most  of  them  going  to  their  graves 
with  their  reminiscences  and  ghost-stories 
unrecorded.  Some  of  their  "untold  tales" 
were  probably  more  startling  than  any  here 
recounted,  and  many  times  more  numerous. 
Many  recorded  in  these  pages  may  lack  in 
vital  interest,  but  our  selection  was  limited. 
If  the  author  has  been  able  to  perform  a 
service,  no  matter  how  slight,  to  legendary 

xviii 


history,  or  to  a  reader's  gratification,  or  to 
promote  a  love  of  all  that  is  picturesque  and 
best  in  the  Central  Pennsylvania  mountain 
Country,  the  task  cannot  be  said  to  have  been 
in  vain. 

But  one  more  word,  kind  reader;  another 
old  friend  complained  that  all  the  love-stories 
ended  too  unhappily.  This  is  partly  due  to 
the  fact  that  they  had  to  be  transcribed 
exactly  as  they  were  told  to  the  writer,  they 
came  reeking  unhappiness.  But  it  may  be 
partly  owing  to  many  incidents  in  the 
author's  life,  which  made  him  remember 
more  distinctly  experiences  somewhat  re- 
sembling his  own. 

A  debt,  an  un-repayable  one,  is  owing  to 
press  and  public  for  the  kindly  reception  of 
his  previous  books.  The  author  is  extremely 
grateful  for  the  genial  and  intellectual  com- 
panionship of  John  H.  Chatham,  of  McEl- 
hattan,  Pa.,  who  accompanied  him  on  many 
of  his  pilgrimages  to  remote  spots  in  the 
mountains;  to  James  W.  Quiggle,  2nd,  also 
of  McElhattan,  for  valued  assistance  in  cor- 
recting the  "proofs";  to  the  Pennsylvania 


Forestry  Department,  and  others,  for  kind 
permission  to  reproduce  photographs  used  in 
the  illustrations. 

HENRY  W.  SHOEMAKER. 

Riverside,  Connecticut. 
November  9,  1912. 


I. 

BIRTH    OF    THE    BALD    EAGLES 
(Story  of  Muncy  Mountain) 


N  the  earliest  day  that  Indian 
myth  and  folk-lore  have 
knowledge  of,  the  region 
which  we  now  call  Central 
Pennsylvania  was  a  flat 
and  fertile  plain,  inter- 
spersed with  clumps  of  rich 
tropical-like  trees  and  bub- 
bling springs,  and  where 
grazed  countless  herds  of  strange  looking 
animals  and  reptiles,  ancestral  types  of  those 
found  there  upon  the  advent  of  the  white 
men.  Sometimes  the  bunches  of  luxuriant 

21 


22  Tales  of  The 

trees  grew  out  of  hillocks  or  knobs,  and  on 
these  the  savage  forerunners  of  the  Indian 
tribes  had  their  abodes.  They  had  come  so 
lately  from  the  bosom  of  Getchi-Manitto  the 
Almighty,  for  the  world  was  new,  and  had 
experienced  so  few  of  the  vicissitudes  now 
so  inherent  to  the  generations,  that  if  they 
had  religious  belief,  it  would  be  founded  on 
a  certainty.  Things  had  not  run  contrary 
to  their  wishes,  consequently  they  had  not 
found  the  advisability  to  inquire  into  their 
beginnings. 

Fruits  of  all  kinds,  as  well  as  nuts  and 
cereals  grew  at  hand  in  abundance.  A  new 
taste,  for  the  flesh  of  animals,  birds  and  fishes 
had  sharpened  their  appetites.  AH  was  easy, 
opulent,  serene.  They  were  beloved  by  their 
Great  First  Cause  and  grew  comfortable  and 
complacent  in  the  very  radiance  of  His  bless- 
ing. 

Wars,  quarrels,  strife,  competition,  all  the 
emulative  features  of  life,  were  lacking  in 
their  composition — their  backbones  had  not 
hardened.  One  hour  of  modern  life  with  its 
upsets,  backsets  and  rivalries,  would  have 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  23 

exhausted  their  untried  energies.  They 
lacked  the  motive  force  to  send  a  line  of 
hardy  descendants  down  the  ages.  They  had 
not  demonstrated  their  rights  for  existence. 
But  they  were  fearless,  in  a  sense,  although 
nothing  had  ever  happened  to  make  them 
afraid.  In  plain  words  they  were  spiritually 
"half-baked."  There  must  be  reasons  why 
humanity  was  made  what  it  is.  The  Chris- 
tian Bible  tells  the  origin  of  sin,  the  Indian 
legends  repeat  the  beginnings  of  valor.  The 
Indians  never  acknowledged  that  they  sinned, 
perhaps  they  never  did;  the  people  of  the 
Bible  never  laid  stress  on  their  bravery.  But 
it  was  to  be  the  fate  of  the  Indians  that  they 
carne  down  the  ages  physically  and  spirit- 
ually brave  and  only  by  contamination  with 
the  whites  did  their  deterioration  begin.  But 
for  centuries  they  lived  in  the  broad  plains 
of  Central  Pennsylvania,  no  better  nor  worse, 
than  when  the  Great  Spirit  breathed  His 
breath  into  the  clay ;  their  inertia  must  have 
begun  to  pall  on  Him.  Only  men  of  action 
have  immortal  souls,  the  Indians  had  none 
in  those  days — there  are  no  Indian  ghosts 


24  Tales  of  The 

dating  from  remote  antiquity  nor  are  there 
legends  of  any.  Perhaps  their  lack  of  indi- 
viduality and  progress  were  all  a  part  of  the 
deeply  laid  plans  of  the  Great  Spirit. 

Valor,  to  be  the  dominant  trait  of  the  In- 
dian character,  was  not  to  be  developed  until 
they  were  physically  fit.  But  when  time  had 
produced  a  magnificent  race  of  beings  their 
testing  out  process  was  to  begin.  Like  all 
acts  of  the  Great  Spirit  it  came  about  in 
a  way  that  could  not  be  long  foretold. 

It  occurred  after  a  season  of  unparal- 
leled calmness  and  prosperity,  in  a  joyous, 
bracing  autumn,  when  the  redmen  smelt  the 
falling  leaves,  and  it  was  too  cool  to  doze  in 
the  half -crisp,  half -sultry  sunshine.  It  came 
first  in  the  form  of  news  from  Indians  whose 
canoes  had  started  far  towards  the  head- 
waters of  Bald  Eagle  Creek,  and  like  tawny 
Paul  Reveres  brought  the  message  of  a  new 
order  of  things,  to  their  peaceful,  indifferent 
fellows  in  the  land  of  the  Susquehanna.  And 
once  they  heard  it,  not  an  Indian  rested  as 
calmly  as  of  yore.  The  bearers  of  tidings  told 
of  a  vast  upheaval  of  the  earth,  moving  irre- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  25 

sistibly  eastward,  like  the  progress  of  some 
monstrous  mole.  Where  once  were  smooth 
plains,  covered  with  groves  of  oaks  and  pine 
or  giant  ferns,  or  fields  waving  with  Indian 
corn,  were  now  great  mountainous  masses  of 
broken  rocks  rifted  from  the  centres  of  the 
earth.  Springs  and  water-courses  were 
loosed  from  their  rocky  fastnesses,  and 
gushed  forth  in  torrents  through  the  crevices 
in  this  new  formed  face  of  nature.  A  force 
that  from  within  could  raise  such  huge  moun- 
tains, some  of  them  a  thousand  feet  in  height, 
must  be  titanic  in  its  strength  and  immensity, 
almost  a  creator  of  worlds  itself. 

Death  and  destruction  had  followed  this 
birth  of  a  mountain  range.  The  peaceful 
redmen  would  fall  asleep  one  night  in  their 
cool  tents,  along  some  stream  on  the  rich 
plains,  never  dreaming  of  aught  but  plenty 
and  contentment.  During  the  night  the  earth 
beneath  them  would  rise,  sometimes  quickly, 
other  times  unsteadily,  as  if  some  vast 
monster  was  turning  in  his  slumbers.  Tents, 
lodges,  campfires,  Indians  old  and  young, 
would  be  hurled  to  their  deaths,  or  sink  to 


26  Tales  of  The 

burial  alive  in  the  new-formed  crannies  and 
abysses.  The  sun  would  rise  from  behind 
a  rocky  peak  instead  of  gliding  gracefully 
into  vision  above  the  horizon.  The  sound 
of  happy  voices  was  no  more,  only  the  dull, 
ominous  rumble  of  the  great  masses  of  rock, 
earth,  and  uprooted  timber  settling  into 
place.  And  this  horror  was  moving  steadily 
eastward,  forming  a  new  mountain  some- 
times every  night.  As  it  seemed  endless  in 
its  course,  the  Indians  dwelling  further  east, 
moved  rapidly  from  the  radius  of  the  new 
development,  but  some  were  caught  una- 
wares when  side  ridges,  mostly  to  the  south, 
were  suddenly  heaved  from  the  plains.  The 
far-eastern  Indians  heard  the  news  with  dis- 
may; it  was  either  combat  the  oncoming 
force,  or  fly  before  it.  But  what  good  was 
flight,  if  mountains  shot  up  in  every  nook 
of  safety.  But  how  to  combat  it  was  the 
question.  All  the  physical  force  of  every 
Indian  on  the  vast  American  continent 
rolled  together  could  not  stay  a  force  vast 
enough  to  heave  up  mountains  from  the 
plains.  It  was  futile  to  concoct  schemes  to 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  27 

combat  it,  human  energy  was  nil  It  had 
not  occurred  that  a  supernatural  power  could 
be  invoked.  The  Indians  of  those  ancient 
simple  days  were  much  like  our  white  people 
in  this  modern  complex  age,  they  did  not 
know  how  to  pray  or  who  to  pray  to.  They 
accepted  everything  as  a  matter  of  course, 
they  had  a  physical  name  for  every  ghost. 

They  called  the  rain,  when  it  pattered  on 
the  birch-bark  roof  of  the  lodge-house,  just 
rain,  it  was  not  the  footsteps  of  a  wraith. 
They  called  the  wind,  when  it  howled  dis- 
mally through  the  pine  woods,  or  swept 
shrieking  up  the  open  bed  of  the  river,  just 
wind,  and  not  a  disembodied,  unhappy 
spirit  calling  for  surcease.  They  called  the 
shadows,  when  they  fell  suddenly  in  front  of 
a  traveller's  path,  or  hid  the  surroundings  of 
a  peaceful  camp,  just  shadows,  and  not  the 
dimly  seen  presence  of  a  ghost  or  troop  of 
ghosts.  They  called  the  sighing  splash  of 
distant  waterfalls,  just  waterfalls,  and  not 
the  song  of  the  banshee  or  "token."  The 
crackling  of  boughs,  or  the  sudden  fall  of  a 
tree  at  night  in  the  forest,  was  just  nature, 


28  Tales  of  The 


and  not  unseen  hands  working  out  their  pur- 


It  was  a  very  prosaic  world  of  facts,  much 
like  the  world  we  live  in  now.  We  have  as 
many  ghosts  about  us  today  as  we  had  a 
hundred  years  ago,  but  like  the  Indians  of 
old,  we  have  given  them  physical  names. 
But  they  are  ghosts  all  the  same;  some  day 
they  will  come  to  their  own.  But  this  com- 
plete understanding  of  this  world  as  a  purely 
physical  manifestation  had  its  limitations. 
When  human  agency  failed  there  was  noth- 
ing that  drew  out  the  reserve  force.  In  a 
world  where  there  are  ghosts,  the  big  deeds 
of  valor  and  unselfish  bravery  are  accom- 
plished. A  prayerful  world  is  a  hopeful, 
undaunted  world.  And  yet  these  simple  abo- 
rigines differed  in  one  great  fundamental 
principle  from  our  modern  materialists.  The 
Indians  were  creedless,  but  cheerful ;  they  did 
not  have  the  pessimistic  gloom  of  modern 
faithlessness.  We  bemoan  a  faith  once  held, 
but  thrown  away;  they  were  comfortable  be- 
cause they  cared  for  nothing  before  or 
behind.  But  in  this  crisis,  when  the  onrush 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  29 

of  a  nascent  range  of  mountains  daily  grew 
more  imminent,  physical  opposition  being 
footless,  they  must  needs  appeal  from  it 
somehow.  Among  their  number  they  ac- 
knowledged one  man  wiser  than  the  rest,  yet 
he  was  only  a  very  young  man.  Of  course  his 
name  is  lost  in  the  shrouds  of  time,  but  a 
name  matters  very  little  where  there  is  ac- 
complishment; it  is  only  useful  with  society 
people  who  do  nothing,  and  need  a  name  to 
prop  them  a  brief  period  on  the  ragged  edge 
of  the  inevitable  oblivion.  Without  striving, 
this  young  man  had  been  by  common  consent 
acknowledged  to  be  the  superior  of  all  others. 
Distinctions  of  birth  were  unknown  in  those 
days,  but  his  wisdom  made  him  king,  and  he 
became  the  progenitor  of  descendants  grow- 
ing less  wise  with  each  generation  until  at 
the  time  of  the  white  men's  invasion,  they 
were  the  dullest  of  their  tribes. 

This  wise  man,  when  they  appealed  to  him 
for  some  recourse  other  than  flight  and  to 
stop  the  destruction  of  their  happy  lands,  said 
he  must  go  out  to  the  barest  part  of  the  plains, 
to  meditate  for  seven  or  eight  days.  He 


50  Tales  of  The 

went,  taking  scanty  provisions  to  ensure  high 
thinking,  but  was  back  after  one  night's  soli- 
tude. He  told  them,  when  they  assembled 
before  him,  that  their  desire  to  remain  where 
they  were  was  an  inspiration,  nothing  less, 
but  furthermore,  if  they  were  brave  and  be- 
lieved, they  could  forever  stop  the  onslaught 
of  their  destroyer,  who  was  mighty  but  not 
divine. 

His  speech  was  intelligible,  except  for  the 
words  "brave,"  "belief,"  "divine."  They 
dealt  with  a  range  of  experience  beyond  their 
orbit.  The  wise  man  seeing  this,  explained 
them  as  best  he  could,  and  to  the  credit  of 
the  redmen  let  it  be  said  they  understood. 

With  this  much  gained,  he  proceeded  to 
tell  them  of  the  secret  of  their  birth,  some- 
thing they  had  not  known  nor  cared  about 
before.  After  once  they  heard  it  they  were 
different  beings,  it  was  as  if  a  divine  spark 
from  the  realm  where  it  abounds,  had  pene- 
trated them ;  they  never  felt  the  same  again. 
The  Great  First  Cause,  who  made  them  ("but 
who  made  the  Great  First  Cause"  was  their 
unanimous  demand,  and  this  remained  unan- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  31 

swered)  desired  to  instill  a  new  virtue,  cour- 
age, into  the  supine,  calm  dwellers  on  the 
plains.  He  had  permitted  a  Machtando  or 
giant  monster  of  the  underworld,  whose  home 
had  been  many  leagues  toward  the  centre 
of  the  earth,  to  disport  himself  mole-like 
beneath  the  outer  lining  of  the  globe. 

Nature  is  wasteful  of  its  seed,  except  when 
it  has  some  purpose  to  conserve,  and  the  lives 
blotted  out  in  the  monster's  track  were  un- 
counted and  would  have  availed  not.  But 
the  vast  body  of  dwellers,  to  the  eastward, 
who  had  learned  of  the  great  changes,  were 
to  be  given  a  chance  to  save  themselves,  and 
make  themselves  in  the  full  sense,  Men. 

But  here  the  concourse  again  interrupted 
the  wise  man.  "Who  made  the  Great  First 
Cause?"  they  clamored.  "That  will  be  an- 
swered some  day  to  each  of  you,"  said  the 
speaker  calmly,  "you  will  laugh  that  you  were 
ever  dumb  enough  to  ask  such  a  question, 
it  will  be  so  simple".  At  any  rate,  the  In- 
dians were  to  win  their  birthright,  only  to 
lose  it  to  a  race  ages  later,  with  a  purer  faith 
than  theirs.  Four  moons  from  the  time  of 


32  Tales  of  The 

the  assemblage,  the  monster  mountain  builder 
was  due  to  emerge,  head  first,  from  his  chain 
of  hills.  The  place  chosen  by  him  was  to  be 
on  the  fertile,  thickly  populated  plains,  across 
the  swelling  river  from  what  the  Indians 
afterwards  called  Molisey  or  Muncy  Town. 
If  the  redmen  defeated  and  destroyed 
the  monster,  they  would  increase,  multi- 
ply and  prosper;  if  they  failed,  all  would 
meet  the  fate  of  their  compatriots  to  the 
west,  not  one  but  a  horde  of  similar  mon- 
sters would  rise  out  of  the  earth  and  anni- 
hilate them.  The  Indians  could  conquer,  if 
they  would  be  brave,  and  bravery  was  syn- 
onymous with  belief.  Believing  in  oneself 
is  equivalent  to  a  creed,  for  God,  or  the 
Great  First  Cause,  we  all  know  is  within  us, 
to  a  greater  or  lesser  extent.  God  is  the 
power  within  us  to  do  things.  During  the 
time  intervening  until  the  great  monster 
shoved  forth  his  Gorgon's  head,  the  Indians 
were  to  prepare  his  doom.  First  of  all  they 
were  to  shape  a  huge  granite  rock,  which 
lay  (perhaps  put  there  by  divine  foresight,  on 
the  river  bank)  into  a  spear  point.  This  they 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains 


were  to  smear  thickly  with  poisons  which 
could  be  dug  from  the  earth,  the  wise  man 
would  show  them  where.  Then  they  were 
to  fasten  the  spear  point  to  a  handle  made 
from  many  tree  trunks  laid  side  by  side, 
fastened  by  hickory  poles,  and  securely 
spliced  at  the  ends. 

All  this  was  to  be  raised  from  the  ground 
on  trucks  or  wheels,  made  from  smooth  beech 
logs,  and  at  the  sides  propelled  by  every  In- 
dian able  to  navigate.  The  logs  were  to  be 
indented  for  each  Indian's  body,  and  his  full 
force  would  help  send  it  forward.  The  wise 
man  showed  them  the  place  where  the  mon- 
ster would  emerge,  and  where  to  station  their 
poisoned  ram.  When  they  heard  the  rip- 
ping of  roots,  the  cracking  of  boulders,  and 
the  bursting  of  soil,  denoting  the  appearance 
of  the  menace,  they  would  get  ready  to  set 
the  instrument  of  defense  into  motion.  When 
the  huge  head,  open-fanged,  emerged,  they 
were,  by  concerted  effort,  to  drive  the  sharp- 
ned,  poisoned  end  down  its  venomous  throat. 

The  wise  man  had  tried  to  make  himself 
clear;  there  was  little  more  to  say.  Before 


34  Tales  of  The 

dismissing  the  concourse,  however,  he  bade 
them  recite  after  him  a  short  prayer  to  the 
Great  First  Cause,  because  that  was  the  only 
part  of  his  discourse  they  had  not  un- 
derstood. Self-preservation  came  naturally 
enough,  but  the  idealistic  part,  the  power  not 
seen,  yet  themselves  solely,  was  too  abstract, 
too  far  from  immediate  benefits  to  shape  it- 
self succinctly  in  their  plant-like  intellects. 
But  they  followed  him  word  for  word,  and 
reverently,  in  the  prayer.  Before  the  mood 
for  action  would  change,  the  young  sooth- 
sayer led  his  people  to  the  great  fiat  rock,  and 
set  them  to  drilling  one  end  to  a  point. 
Buoyed  up  by  their  new  ideals  they  worked 
faster  and  more  skillfully  than  even  their 
leader  deemed  it  possible.  Despite  their  vast 
numbers,  not  one  worker  conflicted  with  an- 
other; it  was  inspired  team  work.  While 
they  were  pounding  away,  the  wise  man  se- 
lected the  trees  which  were  to  form  the  trucks 
or  handle  to  the  giant  war-spear. 

These  being  chosen,  and  marked,  he  set 
the  enthusiastic  workers  constructing  it,  as 
soon  as  the  spear-head  was  done  to  his  satis- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  35 

faction.  They  say  that  after  four  days  and 
nights  of  cheerful  labor,  the  great  weapon 
was  ready  to  be  hurled  against  the  foe. 
Meanwhile  the  old  men,  and  the  women  and 
children  were  moved  far  to  the  eastward,  and 
settled  comfortably  amid  hills  and  valleys, 
until  the  conflict  should  be  over.  So  confi- 
dent was  the  wise  man  of  the  ultimate  tri- 
umph that  he  forbid  families  at  parting  to 
say  goodbye,  he  determined  to  make  faith 
of  victory  certain.  He  drilled  the  force  who 
were  to  operate  the  ram,  until  they  handled 
the  mighty  weapon  dextrously.  Then  there 
was  nothing  to  do  but  to  wait  developments. 
The  foe  might  not  appear  for  four  moons, 
but  there  was  a  danger  of  its  appearance 
sooner.  They  did  not  have  to  wait  until  they 
became  tired  or  disorganized.  It  was  not 
long  until  they  heard  the  awful  rumble  of 
mountains  in  the  making.  The  ground  shook 
where  they  were  encamped,  as  if  mammoths 
were  disporting  themselves  under  their  very 
feet.  One  clear  haze-less  morning  they  be- 
held the  great  circular  outlines  of  a  moun- 
tain, looming  against  the  horizon,  seven  or 


Tales  of  The 


eight  miles  to  the  westward,  where  the  night 
before  none  had  been. 

The  "mountain  builder"  was  almost  upon 
them;  at  this  rate,  their  conflict  with  him, 
would  occur  that  night  or  the  next  morning. 
In  order  to  let  them  see  plainly  by  night,  the 
wise  man  ordered  the  plains  and  forests  fired. 
When  the  sun  sank  miles  of  blazing  grass  and 
tree  ferns  illuminated  the  scene  with  a  lurid, 
uncanny  glow.  All  had  been  silent  since  the 
morning,  the  monster  had  evidently  retired 
below,  to  rest  before  another  effort.  At  mid- 
night they  heard  a  tremendous  crunching  of 
rocks  and  roots,  the  signal  that  the  mountain 
building  had  begun  afresh.  Some  of  the  In- 
dians almost  went  mad  from  the  deafening 
roar,  so  sustained,  so  loud,  so  nerve-racking. 
It  reached  a  pitch  where  it  overpowered 
everything,  and  the  tensely  strained  ear 
drums  became  used  to  it.  But  many  of  the 
redmen  were  totally  deafened  for  life.  By 
the  orange-red  glare  of  the  burning  vegeta- 
tion, they  noted  the  level  of  the  plain  rising 
higher  and  higher.  The  work  of  upheaval 
had  begun  right  before  them;  it  was  their 
chance  now  to  stop  the  hideous  monster,  and 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  87 

earn  a  patrimony  of  valor  to  send  on  to  gen- 
erations yet  unborn.  Amid  the  terriffic 
noises,  the  back-bone  of  a  mountain  rose  into 
view,  a  mountain  a  mile  in  width  and  close  to 
a  thousand  feet  in  height. 

As  it  was  settling  into  a  permanent  con- 
tour, they  noticed  a  rending  in  the  struc- 
ture of  its  easterly  slope;  the  monster,  evi- 
dently apprised  of  his  human  enemies,  was 
preparing  to  issue  forth  to  give  them  battle. 
Soon  the  vast  horned-head  of  the  Machtando, 
or  demon,  did  emerge,  shooting  forth  gaseous 
vapors  so  foul,  that  it  sickened  many  of  the 
defenders.  But  those  who  could  overcome 
their  indisposition,  manned  the  ram  bravely, 
and  sent  it  in  motion  after  the  fiendish  mon- 
ster. Both  head  and  ram  moved  with  about 
the  same  acceleration,  and  force.  But  the 
Indians  were  gifted  on  that  occasion  with 
superhuman  courage,  and  drove  the  sharp- 
ened spear  point  into  the  open  maw  of  the 
on-coming  foe.  For  an  instant  all  seemed 
swallowed  in  the  mass  of  sulphurous  smoke, 
but  the  sharpened  apex  went  true,  coming  out 
the  back  of  the  monster's  neck.  Transfixed 


38  Tales  of  the 

it  could  move  neither  forward  nor  backward, 
but  its  subterranean  body  lashed  itself  wildly, 
sending  fresh  convulsions  through  the  newly 
formed  mountain.  Sooner  or  later  the  crea- 
ture might  have  freed  himself,  but  for  the 
poison,  so  liberally  smeared  over  the  spear- 
head. Before  he  could  devise  a  way  to  shake 
off  his  enemies,  he  was  in  the  throes  of  a 
horrible  death-agony.  Struggling  with 
might  and  main,  he  was  forcing  the  blade 
out  of  his  jaws,  when  the  chilling  forces  of 
death  overcame  him.  But  he  did  not  become 
still  until  after  the  entire  form  had  turned 
itself  completely  over,  causing  that  notice- 
able breadth  at  the  termination  of  what  we 
now  style  Muncy  Mountain. 

When  he  had  gasped  for  the  last  time,  like 
some  foundry  blowing  off,  and  lay  like  the 
heights  above,  perfectly  still,  the  wise  man 
clambered  out  on  the  truck  of  the  weapon, 
and  asked  the  prayers  of  the  valiant  band. 
"It  is  not  for  the  death  of  the  worst  foe  that 
could  attack  us  we  wish  to  give  thanks,  it  is 
for  the  birth  of  our  souls,  of  our  new  valor, 
of  our  hope  for  immortality."  The  Indians, 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  39 

for  the  most  part  utterly  exhausted,  fell  on 
the  earth,  uttering  grateful  expressions. 
They  had  won  a  notable  and  lasting  victory. 
"Let  none  of  you  forget  the  spear"  said 
the  wise  man  when  he  bade  them  disperse. 
And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  Indians  always 
carried  spears  when  on  the  chase  or  in  battle. 
Antiquarians  have  wondered  at  the  appar- 
ent uselessness  of  these  weapons,  but  they 
were  the  armament  of  the  redmen's  souls, 
the  symbol  of  the  grandest  feat  of  their  exist- 
ence. When  they  carried  them  it  augured 
something  great.  And  the  mountain  range 
which  came  into  being  was  called  the  Mach- 
tando,  or  Devil  Mountains,  until  rechristeaed 
centuries  later  in  honor  of  the  great  Chief 
Bald  Eagle. 


II. 


THE  SIREN 
(Story  of  Loyalsock  Mountain) 


HERE  seemed  to  be  an  un- 
warranted number  of  raft- 
ing accidents  at  Loyalsock 
Riffles,  some  of  them 
fraught  with  loss  of  life.  It 
was  certainly  not  the  worst 
place  on  the  river  by  any 
means,  at  least  to  pilots  who 
could  successfully  navigate 


Conewago  Falls,  with  its  drop  of  seventy 
feet  in  the  mile,  year  after  year,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  the  chutes  in  Muncy  and  Shamokin 
dams,  yet  would  go  to  destruction  in  the  shal- 
lows of  Loyalsock.  There  was  one  explana- 
tion which  found  many  followers,  and  which 
was  as  so  many  rafts  had  tied  up  at  Lock 
Haven  or  Williamsport  on  their  way,  that  the 
raftsmen  had  imbibed  too  freely,  and  were 
not  in  the  proper  trim  when  they  hit  their 

40 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  41 

first  obstacle.  But  this  could  not  hold  good 
when  numerous  rafts,  manned  by  church 
members  fresh  from  the  throes  of  protracted 
meetings,  went  down  with  the  same  alacrity 
as  those  piloted  by  crews  "outside  the  fold" ; 
it  behooved  investigators  to  learn  the  prob- 
able reasons  from  the  raftsmen  themselves. 
But  the  rafting  fraternity  was  clannish  and 
close-mouthed,  as  reticent  about  their  mis- 
haps as  their  triumphs,  with  their  own  re- 
venges and  rewards,  and  it  was  only  when 
practically  the  "last  raft"  had  gone  that  the 
old  pilots  became  communicative.  Then  were 
heard  many  interesting  reminiscences  of  the 
river. 

There  was  one  old  gentleman  who  had 
rafted  for  over  half  a  century,  and  who  knew 
the  Susquehanna  from  the  mouth  of  Moshan- 
non  to  the  dead  waters  of  Marietta  as  a  nun 
knows  her  beads,  that  was  able  to  explain 
why  so  many  rafts  split  up  at  Loyalsock.  He 
did  not  profess  to  believe  the  story  in  its 
entirety,  but  without  it  the  constant  wrecks 
would  be  shrouded  in  the  profoundest  mys- 
tery. Once  when  the  grand  old  gentleman 


42  Tales  of  The 

was  in  a  particularly  communicative  mood; 
lie  was  seated  on  his  favorite  easy-chair  on 
his  comfortable  piazza  in  the  shadow  of  the 
Round  Top,  he  told  the  story  of  the  rafts  that 
went  to  pieces  over  the  Riffles  of  Loyalsock. 
It  seemed  there  never  was  so  much  as  a  dog- 
raft  or  a  dug-out  wrecked  there  in  the  early 
days  of  rafting;  the  river  had  been  run  safely 
from  Karthaus  to  Harrisburg  for  ten  years 
before  the  trouble  began.  Then  all  of  a  sud- 
den there  was  a  change ;  it  took  a  hardy  pilot 
to  get  through  in  safety  until  he  learned  the 
secret  of  the  danger.  Once  aware  of  this,  he 
took  particular  care  not  to  duplicate  his  loss, 
which  sometimes  had  mounted  up  even  into 
human  lives.  As  was  generally  the  case  with 
untoward  happenings  in  those  days,  and  in 
these  for  that  matter,  if  we  only  took  trouble 
to  inquire,  man's  avarice  and  sin  and  super- 
natural retribution  were  the  "cause  and  ef- 
fect" of  these  rafting  tragedies. 

To  go  back  to  the  first  elements  of  the 
story,  let  it  be  stated  again  that  the  Indians 
did  not  leave  the  Bald  Eagle  Mountain  coun- 
try suddenly,  nor  any  other  part  of  the  State. 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  43 

After  they  had  been  whipped  into  being 
peaceable  citizens,  they  were  familiar  figures 
in  the  market  places  of  the  towns,  around  the 
old  public-houses  and  ferries,  and  their  tents 
and  shanties  loomed  along  many  a  river  bank. 
Gradually  only  did  they  become  less,  they 
went  quietly  and  unobtrusively,  until  no  one 
was  shocked  when  they  were  seen  no  more. 

The  negro  of  today  is  going  through  a  simi- 
lar transition,  he  is  seen  filling  fewer  posi- 
tions than  ten  or  twenty  years  ago,  he  is  drop- 
ping out  of  his  familiar  haunts,  he  is  becom- 
ing less  obtrusive,  he  is  on  the  wane.  Fifty 
years  from  now  people  will  listen  with  amaze- 
ment at  tales  of  the  plentitude  of  negroes 
in  the  last  years  of  the  nineteenth  century; 
he  will  have  followed  the  Indian  into  shad- 
owy oblivion. 

There  was  a  single  family  of  Mingo  In- 
dians, tradition  had  it  they  came  from  the 
Southern  part  of  the  State,  who  lived  a  short 
distance  below  the  present  location  of  the 
summer  resort  known  as  Sylvan  Dell.  They 
were  not  the  only  interesting  denizens  of  that 
spot;  Tim  Murphy  the  famous  sharp-shooter 


44  Tales  of  The 

of  the  Revolution  spent  his  last  days  there. 
But  to  be  exact,  Tim's  cabin  stood  an  eighth 
of  a  mile  further  up  stream,  where  there  was 
quite  a  respectable  sized  flat  for  his  garden. 
The  Indians'  shanty  was  perched  at  the  apex 
where  the  flat  and  the  mountain  side  come 
together.  It  looked,  from  a  distance,  like  an 
oriole's  nest,  literally  hanging  over  the  river. 
The  Indian  head  of  the  family  went  by  the 
name  of  Powderhorn,  not  a  very  pretty,  but 
yet  a  serviceable  cognomen.  About  the  time 
they  adopted  trousers  and  stove-pipe  hats,  the 
redskins  began  anglicizing  their  names.  In 
their  last  phase  in  Pennsylvania  history  we 
read  of  Johnnyhocks,  Little  Johnny  Broken- 
straw,  Bob  Sunday,  Billy  Frozen  Stone,  Hot- 
bread,  and  Powderhorn. 

But  the  story  of  Powderhorn  concerns  us 
most  at  present.  He  was  the  last  of  his  gen- 
eration, his  father  and  mother  had  been 
butchered  by  whites  on  the  Yellow  Breeches 
Creek,  his  brothers  and  sisters  grew  to  ma- 
turity only  to  die  of  some  pestilence  which 
decimated  their  kind  on  the  banks  of  the 
Juniata.  Powderhorn  himself  had  suffered 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  45 

from  the  horrible  disease,  but  survived  it 
minus  hair  and  teeth  and  plus  a  palsied  leg. 
It  was  hard  for  him  to  hunt,  so  he  cultivated 
a  taste  for  basket-making.  He  married  on 
the  Juniata,  and  drifted  North  with  his  bride 
and  built  for  her  the  hanging  nest  in  that  neck 
of  woods  below  the  Sylvan  Dell.  He  became 
an  attendant  at  the  first  markets  in  Wil- 
liamsport,  where  he  found  ready  sale  for  his 
wares  and  in  addition  did  chores  for  the 
farmers  and  housewives.  To  see  an  Indian 
today  at  a  Williamsport  market  would  draw 
a  crowd,  but  that  is  because  the  last  aborigine 
has  gone.  In  those  days  there  were  supposed 
to  be  Indians,  they  caused  no  more  conster- 
nation than  when  a  bull  moose  from  the 
North  Woods  is  strung  up  in  front  of  a 
butcher's  stall. 

In  due  course  of  time  Powderhorn  accumu- 
lated a  family;  it  consisted  of  eight  girls  and 
a  boy.  The  boy  was  a  sickly  specimen,  early 
ticketed  for  the  Happy  Hunting  Ground  with- 
out stop,  but  the  girls  seemed  full  of  health* 
were  lithe,  graceful,  good-looking.  There 
was  one,  the  flower  of  the  flock,  in  whom  was 


46  Tales  of  The 

centred  all  the  good  points  of  generations  be- 
hind. Powderhorn  and  his  squaw  Maggie 
Sue,  she  was  named  after  two  rich  Scotch- 
Irish  women  near  whose  home  her  parents 
once  tented,  both  wanted  an  attractive  name 
for  this  most  winsome  of  their  daughters. 
They  called  her  after  a  flowering  plant,  the 
roots  of  which  they  had  both  hunted  and 
loved  as  modern  children  love  candy,  Sweet 
Cicely.  The  young  girl  developed  to  be 
sweeter  than  her  name  and  her  parents  in 
their  homely  way  were  sometimes  sorry  they 
had  not  chosen  a  name  more  imposing.  Per* 
haps  as  they  grew  older  they  forgot  the  taste 
of  their  early  sweetmeat.  Socially  the  lonely 
Indian  family  were  quite  by  themselves,  as 
much  so  as  a  parrot  in  a  flock  of  sparrows. 
The  good  looks  of  the  Indian  girls,  especially 
Sweet  Cicely,  made  considerable  of  an  im- 
pression on  the  few  young  white  men  of  the 
neighborhood,  but  as  the  girls  had  no  wild 
inclinations,  they  made  no  efforts  to  be  civil 
to  them.  The  oldest  girl,  when  she  was  twenty- 
six,  in  the  Warrior's  Run  Sunday  School  one 
morning  told  her  teacher  that  she  had  never 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  47 

had  a  sweetheart.  The  white  girls  looked 
at  her  amazed,  as  she  was  far  prettier  than 
any  of  them. 

Once,  by  chance,  an  Indian  youth  appeared 
on  the  scene.  He  came  from  the  reservation 
about  fifteen  miles  north  of  Warren  and  did 
farm  work  for  old  Ezra  McGrady  who  lived 
across  the  river  from  Powderhorn's  retreat. 
Ha  was  a  fine  appearing  young  fellow,  about 
twenty  years  of  age,  and  grown  to  a  height 
a  couple  of  inches  over  six  feet.  He  called 
himself  Wild  William  Winters  and  boasted 
of  a  relationship  to  the  venerable  Chief  Corn- 
plant.  Having  the  choice,  he  selected  Sweat 
Cicely  as  the  object  of  his  admiration  and 
soon  was  genuinely  in  love  with  her  and  she 
with  him.  He  was  her  first  admirer,  her 
first  love,  her  first  kiss,  all  was  so  new  and 
fresh ;  her  embraces  did  not  cast  the  shadow 
of  some  other  man  who  had  been  there  be- 
fore. She  was  happy  in  not  being  able  to 
measure  his  intensity  with  some  one  else,  to 
compare  his  kisses  and  hand  clasps  with  one 
who  had  gone  before.  The  ecstacy  of  the 
first  love  is  life's  grandest  elation;  but  how 


48  Tales  of  The 

few  who  have  experienced  it  are  aware  of 
its  value. 

There  was  a  pathway  which  led  from  the 
home  of  Powderhorn  along  the  river  bank; 
it  ran  about  ten  feet  above  the  water  and 
was  shaded  by  venerable  red-birches,  button- 
woods,  elms  and  hemlocks.  Wildflowers  and 
many  colored  birds,  sweet  scents  and  sweet 
songs,  made  it  a  paradise  for  strayers.  The 
path  terminated  at  a  narrow,  rocky  ledge 
which  was  often  used  as  a  seat  by  the  lovers. 
On  the  warmer  evenings  Sweet  Cicely  sat 
there  and  waited  until  Wild  William,  hia 
work  at  McGrady's  done,  would  cross  the 
river  in  his  canoe  and  court  her  on  the  ledge. 
When  it  was  time  to  go  home  he  would  ac- 
company her  up  the  path  to  the  cabin,  and 
then  return  to  his  canoe,  skimming  across 
the  moonlit  waters  like  a  savage  warrior  of 
old.  Often  as  she  waited,  Sweet  Cicely  would 
sing.  She  had  a  sweet  voice  and  picked  up 
many  of  the  ancient  Indian  refrains  and, 
coming  from  the  South,  she  sang  the  earliest 
version  of  that  bewitching  piece,  "Wild  roved 
an  Indian  girl,  bright  Alfarata."  It  was  an 


Z     a 

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a:  £ 

I 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  49 

entrancing  sight  to  see  her  sitting  there,  with 
her  pretty  feet  dangling  over  the  ledge,  sing- 
ing her  love-warmed  songs,  while  her  lover 
sped  to  her  side  in  his  canoe.  It  was  a  bit 
of  primeval  life  restored;  if  it  could  only 
have  lasted. 

During  the  Spring  floods  rafts  would  drift 
by  the  lovers'  rookery;  when  they  were  to- 
gether they  waved  to  the  raftsmen,  just  as 
modern  folk  salute  a  passing  express  train. 
All  was  good-natured,  simple,  harmless.  Oc- 
casionally at  dusk  when  Sweet  Cicely  was 
waiting  for  her  lover,  rafts  would  pass,  but 
they  were  belated  craft,  looking  for  comfort- 
able eddies  to  tie  up  for  the  night.  The 
young  girl  never  waved  to  the  raftsmen  when 
she  was  alone  and  few  noticed  her  when  the 
sun  was  gone.  They  swept  by  like  wild  geese 
hunting  their  night-marsh.  But  sometimes 
as  they  passed  she  would  catch  herself  in  the 
midst  of  some  song,  though  in  minor  key,  and 
would  check  herself  instantly  fearing  that  the 
watermen  might  think  she  was  singing  to 
^attract  them.  She  sang  because  she  was 


50  Tales  of  The 

happy,  and  one  ought  to  be  allowed  happiness 
even  when  strangers  are  present. 

One  night  when  the  river  was  falling  fast 
she  had  permitted  herself  to  burst  into  song ; 
it  seemed  a  late  hour  and  late  from  river- 
men's  standards  for  any  rafts  to  pass;  the 
time  slipped  quicker  when  she  sang  until 
Wild  William  came.  They  had  been  house- 
cleaning  at  McGrady's,  and  the  young  red- 
man  being  man  of  all  work  was  detained  in 
consequence.  Sweet  Cicely  expected  this,  but 
he  seemed  uncommonly  long  in  coming.  As 
she  looked  up  and  down  stream  with  her 
eager  lover-like  glances,  she  noticed  a  raft 
approaching.  The  pilot,  a  black  figure  against 
the  silvery  tone  of  the  dusk,  stood  motionless 
at  his  steering-oar.  He  was  alone;  a  pile 
of  buffalo  robes  on  the  centre  of  the  raft 
showed  where  he  slept.  Where  the  rest  of 
his  crew  were  was  a  mystery;  maybe  they 
had  mutinied  at  some  tavern,  Sweet  Cicely 
conjectured.  She  was  so  interested  by  this 
apparition  of  the  lone  raftsman  that  she 
forgot  to  stop  singing.  The  night  wind 
springing  up  bore  the  strains  of  "Still  sweeps 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  51 

the  River  on"  to  the  ears  of  the  silent  man. 
His  alert  glance  showed  that  a  young  slender 
girl  was  watching  him  and  her  singing  was 
probably  meant  for  him.  Quick  as  a  flash  he 
threw  his  weight  against  the  oar  and  headed 
the  raft  towards  shore.  It  was  a  perilous 
place  to  tie  up,  but  he  was  willing  to  risk  it. 
When  the  front  logs  snubbed  the  rocky  bank, 
he  leaped  on  land  and  tied  the  raft  to  some 
of  the  sturdiest  red-birches.  Then  he  clam- 
bered up  the  rocky  cliff  to  where  Sweet 
Cicely  was  seated,  with  her  feet  dangling 
over  the  ledge.  He  moved  so  rapidly,  she 
was  still  singing  when  he  stood  beside  her. 
She  was  not  frightened,  it  was  not  dark,  any 
minute  she  might  see  Wild  William's  canoe 
launched  in  the  current.  What  did  the 
stranger  want,  his  conduct  was  inexplicable. 
He  did  not  lose  time  in  showing  her,  as  he 
sat  down  and  put  his  arm,  as  strong  as  an 
iron  girder,  around  her  slender  waist,  and 
began  addressing  her  in  names  of  endear- 
ment. The  girl  tried  to  free  herself,  calling 
out  "let  go,  let  go,  let  go,  you"  but  the 
stranger  only  held  her  more  tightly.  "Let 


52  Tales  of  The 

go  or  I'll  scream  for  help"  was  her  next 
note  of  warning.  At  this  he  put  both  arms 
about  her  and  tried  to  push  her  over  on  her 
back.  That  was  the  limit  of  endurance,  she 
screamed  lustily,  all  the  vigor  of  her  Indian 
lungs  was  asserted.  The  man,  angered  to  a 
point  where  self-control  was  gone,  released 
his  hold  from  her  waist  with  one  hand  and 
grasped  her  throat  to  silence  her.  He  had  a 
stronger  grip  than  he  realized,  so  used  to 
bending  his  heavy  oaken  oar  against  resolute 
currents;  the  girl  miraculously  to  him,  be- 
came still.  He  looked  down  on  her  as  a  pan- 
ther would  on  sickly  fawn ;  the  purple  pink  of 
her  complexion  was  now  a  blue  grey,  the  color 
of  twilight  before  it  dies.  Some  instinct  of 
self-preservation,  such  as  every  animal  pos- 
sesses, caused  him  to  turn  his  eyes  across  the 
river.  A  canoe,  with  two  men  in  it,  was  be- 
ing launched.  He  looked  again  at  the  limp 
form  before  him;  he  had  evidently  killed  the 
girl,  he  must  make  his  escape.  But  how  was 
he  to  do  it?  On  one  side  was  the  river,  with 
the  canoe  of  the  avengers  now  in  mid-stream^ 
on  the  other  rose  the  stiff  forbidding  height 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  53 

of  the  Bald  Eagle  Mountain.  It  was  a  peri- 
lous climb  at  dark,  but  he  must  go  that  way, 
as  the  heavy  timber  would  protect  him  from 
any  bullets  they  sent  after  him. 

Abandoning  money,  robes,  provisions,  he 
started  up  the  mountain,  speeding  with  the 
giant  strides  of  fear  and  self -protection.  The 
canoe  which  contained  Wild  William,  and 
another  young  Indian  named  Bully  Elkhorn, 
who  had  come  to  hostler  at  McGrady's  farm 
reached  the  shore  below  the  ledge,  and  the 
young  men  clambered  to  where  Sweet  Cicely 
lay.  She  was  not  dead  yet,  every  possible  effort 
was  made  to  revive  her,  but  as  the  last  streak 
of  light  vanished  from  the  sky,  she  died ;  and 
they  stood  before  death  in  the  darkness,  with 
the  sound  of  the  river  rippling  below  them. 

Wild  William  could  feel  the  marks  of  the 
brute's  thumb  in  her  slender  neck.  He  must 
have  broken  her  windpipe.  He  was  too  sto- 
ical to  cry;  he  belonged  to  a  vanishing  race, 
death  was  the  principal  event  to  them,  what 
else  was  there  but  death.  "That's  pretty 
tough",  said  Bully  Elkhorn,  sympathetically, 
as  he  had  sized  up  the  situation  "come  to  meet 


54  Tales  of  The 

your  sweetheart  only  to  find  her  murdered." 
"That  raftsman  did  it,  but  we  couldn't  have 
stopped  him,  as  we  had  no  guns,  and  he  was 
gone  before  our  canoe  touched  shore."  Tak- 
ing the  fragile  corpse  in  their  arms,  the  young 
men,  straight  and  tragic  looking,  and  never 
speaking  a  word,  stalked  up  the  path,  the 
scene  of  so  many  happy  strolls  in  the  past, 
to  the  cabin  of  poor  old  Powderhorn. 

It  appeared  so  bleak  and  forlorn  looking  out 
through  the  night,  it  was  just  a  shade  darker 
than  the  gloom,  as  the  hearts  of  the  house- 
hold would  be  in  a  few  minutes.  The  little 
shaggy  watchdog,  a  sort  of  mongrel  descend- 
ant of  the  true  Indian  dogs,  barked  moodily, 
as  they  drew  near.  He  saw  that  something 
was  amiss.  Wild  William  knocked  on  the 
door,  and  it  was  almost  instantly  opened  by 
Powderhorn.  "What's  wrong"  he  stammered, 
"I  had  a  feeling  something  was  going  to  hap- 
pen, I  couldn't  get  to  sleep."  He  need  not 
have  inquired,  his  second  glance  showed 
Sweet  Cicely  lying  limp  in  Bully  Elkhorn's 
arms. 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  55 

Wild  William  explained  the  story  as  briefly 
as  possible,  and  then  the  body  was  borne  in- 
side. The  next  morning  old  Powderhom 
tramped  to  Williamsport  and  tried  to  give  the 
account  of  his  daughter's  death  at  the  Court- 
house. But  the  officials  plainly  regarded 
the  Indians  as  outside  the  law,  he  could 
not  get  a  listening  ear.  He  was  so  insistent 
that  something  be  done  that  the  sheriff,  to  be 
rid  of  him,  intimated  that  unless  he  dropped 
the  subject  and  left  town,  he  would  send 
down  and  arrest  Wild  William  and  charge 
him  with  the  crime,  and  lock  up  Bully  Elk- 
horn  and  the  old  man  as  witnesses.  Con- 
vinced of  the  futility  of  obtaining  justice,  he 
returned  home,  and  that  night  helped  bury 
the  remains  of  his  beloved  daughter  in  a 
patch  of  rich  earth.  They  planted  sunflower 
seeds  on  the  grave. 

Powderhorn  was  never  the  same  after 
Sweet  Cicely  had  gone.  He  would  not  go  to 
Williamsport  again,  as  he  imagined  everyone 
else  was  as  unjust  as  the  Court-house  offi- 
cials. He  limped  more  than  usual,  and  com- 
plained of  headaches  and  backaches.  He 


56  Tales  of  The 

often  said  he  would  like  to  get  away.  In 
this  wish  he  was  supported  by  the  rest  of  his 
family.  The  happy  days  were  no  more. 

After  harvest  Wild  William  and  Bully  Elk- 
horn,  who  had  tried  to  trail  the  murderer 
during  their  leisure  moments  and  became  dis- 
couraged, decided  to  go  back  to  the  reserva- 
tion on  the  AHeghany.  When  they  confided 
this  to  Fov/derhorn,  he  said  he  would  go  along 
and  take  his  family.  So  early  in  September 
"they  gathered  up  their  tents  like  the  Arabs 
and  silently  stole  away."  Years  afterwards 
rumor  had  it  that  Wild  William's  wound  had 
healed  sufficiently  to  marry  another  of  Pow- 
clerhorn's  daughters,  while  Bully  Elkhorn  had 
married  the  oldest  girl,  whose  first  love  affair 
came  to  her  at  thirty. 

But  the  shadowy  essence  of  the  ill-used  In- 
dians remained  along  Loyalsoek  mountain,  at 
feast  the  spiritual  part  of  one  of  them.  In 
the  springtime  when  belated  rafts  swept 
down  the  river  in  search  of  cozy  eddiesr 
the  clear,  pure  notes  of  a  young  girl's  voice 
were  heard  from  high  on  a  ledge  above  the 
stream.  Hearing  them  for  the  first  time. 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  57 

they  were  so  liquid,  so  exquisite,  so  far- 
reaching,  many  a  pilot  let  go  his  oar,  and  the 
uneven  current  would  bump  the  raft  on  the 
sharp  rocks  or  send  it  wobbling  into  shore. 
There  would  be  a  rending  of  thongs,  a  bend- 
ing of  bolts,  a  ravelling  of  ropes,  shouts, 
curses,  thumps  and  bangs ;  the  raft,  mistress 
of  the  tide  but  a  few  moments  before,  would 
be  floating  in  all  directions  like  so  much 
flotsam  and  jetsam.  Sometimes  pilot  or  help- 
ers would  fall  between  logs  and  have  their 
necks  broken  or  be  drowned  in  the  maelstrom. 
And  above  the  crash  of  breaking  timbers  and 
seething  waters  would  come  the  clear,  flute- 
like  echoes  of  a  young  girl's  voice.  Even 
those  who  had  gone  through  these  perils  and 
escaped  with  life  and  limb  would  be  sorely 
tempted  to  look  and  listen  the  next  time  they 
heard  it. 

Who  she  was,  and  what  she  was,  this  Siren 
of  the  West  Branch,  must  be  explained.  She 
could,  not  be  human,  she  sang  as  if  divine.  No 
one  dared  stop  to  investigate;  it  was  fatal 
to  even  listen.  But  old  Ezra  McGrady  from 
his  point  of  vantage  across  the  river  .began 


58  Tales  of  The 

to  do  some  thinking  about  the  matter.  He 
had  already  formed  an  opinion  of  what 
caused  so  many  wrecks  when  one  night  a 
stranger  stopped  for  supper  and  asked  him, 
incidentally,  if  he  knew  what  had  become  of 
the  Indian  family  who  used  to  live  on  the 
opposite  shore.  The  man  had  been  drink- 
ing, so  his  tongue  ran  freely ;  there  was  some- 
thing about  him  which  stamped  him  as  a 
raftsman.  By  deft  questioning  McGrady 
learned  his  name  and  his  experiences  on  the 
river  before  he  sent  him  on  his  way.  "Some 
just  fate  sent  him  here"  muttered  the  old 
man,  as  he  turned  about  after  lighting  the 
stranger  to  the  pike  with  his  lantern.  "In- 
dian or  not,  that  girl  will  be  avenged."  The 
next  time  a  party  of  raftsmen  stopped  at  his 
house,  it  had  become  quite  a  resort  for  them 
on  their  long  walks  to  their  homes,  he  whis- 
pered to  them  the  story  of  the  strange  singer 
with  the  fatal  voice,  and  who  her  murderer 
had  been.  "Mum's  the  word,  by  the  saints 
above"  they  all  said  with  right  hands  raised. 
"We'll  send  that  girl's  spirit  into  peace,  even 
if  she  was  an  Indian." 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains 


Who  could  forget  that  rugged  circle  as  they 
stood  in  the  hallway  in  the  candle-light!  One 
night,  the  following  Spring,  just  as  the  last 
streaks  of  light  were  passing  from  the  sky, 
another  fatal  rafting  accident  occurred  at  the 
Loyalsock  Paffies.  A  well-known  pilot  from 
the  new  county  of  Clinton,  respected  and 
prosperous,  was  knocked  off  his  raft  by  the 
bow  of  another  raft  which  had  been  trailing 
close  behind.  He  was  horribly  mangled  by 
logs  and  rocks,  so  much  so  that  it  was  decided 
to  inter  his  remains  on  the  flat  near  the  de- 
serted Indian  cabin.  As  they  threw  the  sods 
over  him,  this  human  chuck-steak,  the  crowd 
around  seemed  to  hear  high  up  on  the  moun- 
tain, the  sweet  notes  of  a  girl  singing,  "Fleet- 
ing years  have  borne  away  the  voice  of  Al- 
farata."  The  men  nudged  one  another,  bared 
their  heads  and  listened.  It  was  the  last 
time  that  anyone  ever  heard  the  Siren. 


III. 


THE  RED  FOX 
(Story  of  Williamsport  Mountain) 


T  was  regarded  as  remark- 
able, by  such  men  of  science 
as  Professor  Spencer  F. 
Baird  and  others  of  his 
stamp,  that  no  fossil  re- 
mains of  red  foxes  were  de- 
rived from  the  Carlisle  and 
other  bone  caves,  whereas 
^^^^^^  the  remains  of  grey  foxes 

were  abundant.  At  Port  Kennedy  one  upper 
molar  was  found  in  a  cavern,  belonging  to 
the  pleistocene  period,  said  to  be  from  a  red 
fox.  Apart  from  this  there  is  no  evidence 
to  suppose  that  the  red  fox  existed  in  Penn- 
sylvania before  the  advent  of  the  British 
colonists.  It  is  known  for  certain  that  they 
were  imported  from  England  into  New  York 
and  New  Jersey  as  early  as  the  beginning  of 
the  Eighteenth  Century.  In  1750,  an  enter- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains 


prising  sea  captain  landed  at  New  York  City 
a  cargo  consisting  of  English  and  Irish  hunt- 
ers, English  hounds  and  fifty  brace  of  red 
foxes.  It  created  great  excitement  at  the 
time,  and  the  young  bloods  from  New  York, 
Pennsylvania  and  Virginia  bought  out  the 
entire  shipment  at  good  prices.  It  was  a 
few  years  after  this  that  red  foxes  began  to 
be  noticed  as  wild  animals  in  the  above  men- 
tioned colonies.  Other  shipments  followed 
at  irregular  periods,  and  it  must  be  assumed 
that  a  fair  percentage  of  the  animals  es- 
caped and  bred,  as  there  was  so  much  wood- 
land and  rough  country. 

It  is  recorded  that  the  first  red  fox  killed 
in  Perry  County,  Pennsylvania  met  its  death 
in  1787,  showing  that  the  species  was  gradu- 
ally moving  into  the  Central  part  of  the 
State.  The  gentlemen  of  English  descent 
who  lived  in  the  manor  houses  along  the  West 
Branch  took  up  fox-hunting  as  a  pastime. 
Several  shipments  of  red  foxes  arrived  from 
England  about  1795,  consigned  to  wealthy 
sportsmen  at  and  below  Williamsport.  Among 
the  most  enthusiastic  sportsmen  of  his  day 


62  Tales  of  The 

was  old  Edgar  Cooper,  or  "Lord"  Cooper, 
as  his  friends  called  him.  He  lived  in  a  large 
unfinished  mansion  in  the  Gap  back  of  South 
Williamsport,  at  the  foot  of  the  "upper"  or 
westerly  mountain,  then  a  very  wild  region. 
Although  he  had  been  born  in  Pennsylvania, 
ho  liked  to  pretend  he  was  English  and  took 
pains  to  ignore  the  fact  that  the  United  States 
had  been  formed,  and  the  colonies  were  no 
longer  dependent  upon  England.  He  was 
proud  and  aristocratic  to  a  degree,  yet  the 
name  Cooper  would  indicate  that  two  or  three 
generations  back,  or  maybe  less,  his  ancestors 
were  part  and  parcel  of  the  hoi  polloi.  He 
tried  to  look  like  an  English  country  squire, 
of  the  kind  he  had  read  about  in  books,  or 
had  heard  descriptions  of  from  travellers,  as 
the  genuine  article  was  far  from  extinct  at 
that  time. 

One  would  think  that  with  all  his  love  for 
the  English  he  would  have  made  fre- 
quent trips  to  that  country,  but  in  truth  he 
had  never  been  across  the  Atlantic,  some  said 
he  had  never  been  as  far  east  as  New  York. 
When  distinguished  Englishmen  were  travel- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  63 

ling  through  the  valley,  he  always  managed 
to  entertain  them  at  "Boxwood,"  as  he  called 
his  estate,  and  would  talk  intimately  about 
"dear  old  England."  As  he  looked  the  Johnny 
Bull,  and  talked  with  an  exaggerated  Brit- 
ish accent,  his  guests  often  asked  him  when 
he  was  last  in  the  old  country.  From  long 
experience  he  deftly  turned  the  conversation, 
or  if  cornered  fibbed  bravely  and  said  he  had 
been  educated  there.  In  reality  he  went  to 
district  school  one  term  in  Little  Britain 
Township,  Lancaster  County.  His  father,  an 
Englishman  by  birth,  had  made  his  money  as 
a  clothing  contractor  to  the  patriot  army  dur- 
ing the  Revolution;  the  son  owed  everything 
to  the  new  republic,  yet  he  professed  utmost 
contempt  for  "the  common  herd  at  the  head 
of  things." 

Hunting  grey  or  hybrid  foxes  was  a  sport 
followed  by  Germans  and  Scotch-Irishmen; 
it  was  below  his  dignity,  he  must  hunt  the 
animal  that  had  made  the  chase  famous  in 
the  land  of  his  ancestors.  So  he  imported, 
at  considerable  expense,  six  brace  of  red  foxes 
from  England.  The  arrival  of  these  hand- 


64  Tales  of  The 

some  animals  created  great  excitement  in  the 
neighborhood.  Tended  by  Indian  and  negro 
servants,  they  had  as  much  care  as  children. 
Every  Sunday  "Lord"  Cooper  and  his  bevy 
of  more  or  less  English  friends  would 
visit  the  pens,  and  stand  long  and  reverently 
before  these  brick-colored  specimens  of  ani- 
mal life  in  the  realm  of  King  George.  "Box- 
wood/' the  name  of  the  estate  came  from 
the  fact  that  Cooper  imported  a  dozen  box- 
woods from  England,  which  were  set  out  on 
the  terrace  in  front  of  the  mansion.  Unfor- 
tunately all  but  one  died ;  but  it  was  too  late, 
the  name  had  been  selected  and  "Boxwood" 
it  remained.  He  had  better  luck  with  the 
rarer  varieties  of  native  trees,  of  which  he 
had  quite  a  knowledge,  and  possessed  excel- 
lent taste.  He  set  out  groups  of  sweet  gums, 
gingkos,  Kentucky  coffee  trees,  honey-locusts, 
virgilias,  and  buckeyes,  balsam  firs,  red 
spruces,  arbor  vitaes  and  junipers,  which 
grew  handsomely.  He  interspersed  these 
with  clumps  of  rhododendrons,  hawthorns, 
red-buds  and  spice  bushes,  all  of  which  helped 
to  hide  the  unfinished  aspect  of  the  house. 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  65 

He  was  a  very  improvident  man.  If  he  lived 
within  his  income  he  could  have  had  ample 
means  to  finish  the  house,  but  whenever  his 
remittances  came  to  hand,  he  spent  it  lavish- 
ly, and  the  work  languished.  He  finished  the 
stables  first,  letting  the  house  progress  by 
gradual  stages.  The  stables  were  built  of 
the  native  stone,  but  roofed  with  red  Eng- 
lish tiles,  and  surrounded  by  thrifty  Lom- 
bardy  poplars,  imported  from  "the  snug  lit- 
tle isle." 

"Lord"  Cooper  had  married  a  Quakeress 
in  Philadelphia;  their  family,  which  was 
small  for  those  days,  consisted  of  a  son  and 
a  daughter.  Meredyth  Cooper,  the  son,  was 
the  antithesis  of  his  father,  and  was  said  to 
take  after  his  mother's  side  of  the  house.  He 
was  genial,  democratic  and  broad-minded. 
He  had  refused  to  be  sent  to  England  to  be 
educated,  but  had  received  an  excellent  train- 
ing from  tutors  and  in  the  bsst  of  private 
schools  in  Philadelphia.  He  was  a  handsome 
big  fellow,  and  while  devoted  to  out-door 
sports,  and  fox-hunting  in  particular,  he  pur- 
sued them  in  a  manly,  dignified  manner,  after 


Tales  of  The 


the  fashion  of  the  best  type  of  the  American 
gentleman. 

The  most  prized  object  in  the  stables  was 
a  handsome  English  thoroughbred  stallion 
which  was  said  to  have  won  the  great  Derby 
Stakes.  Some  years  later  another  alleged 
winner  of  the  Epsom  classic  appeared  at  Jer- 
sey Shore ;  they  must  not  be  confused,  as  both 
left  a  numerous  progeny.  The  spirited  Derby 
winner  had  been  imported  to  this  country  in 
charge  of  a  diminutive  ruffian  from  Newmar- 
ket, called  Luke  Pratchett.  Luke  boasted 
that  he  was  a  prize-fighter,  and  made  him- 
self very  quarrelsome  with  the  natives.  One 
Sunday  afternoon  he  became  impudent  to 
two  tall,  lanky  Scotch-Irish  youths,  named 
McClanachan  who  came  to  look  at  the  stal- 
lion, and  they  treated  him  to  a  terrific  beating 
in  consequence.  The  same  afternoon  a  strut- 
ty  duckwing  game-cock,  also  from  Newmar- 
ket heath,  was  trounced  to  the  last  feather 
by  a  commonplace  Creeley  rooster  belonging 
to  some  Pennsylvania-German  farmers  who 
were  immigrating  to  Sugar  Valley.  After 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  67 

that  Johnny  Bull  had  his  claws  drawn  around 
"Lord"  Cooper's  stables. 

Early  in  the  autumn  the  first  hunt  with 
one  of  the  English  foxes  took  place.  An  Eng- 
lishman from  Sunbury,  another  from  Harris- 
burg  and  two  from  York  were  on  hand  as 
special  guests  to  give  local  color  to  the  chase. 
"Lord"  Cooper  with  a  red  coat,  mounted  on 
the  English  stallion,  with  his  son,  and  Luke 
Pratchett  as  huntsman,  were  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  party.  Unfortunately  the  im- 
ported thoroughbred  balked  shortly  after 
leaving  the  stables  and  the  hue  and  cry  went 
•out  Mosquito  Valley  minus  his  lordship.  It 
was  an  exciting  chase,  while  it  lasted.  The 
fox  had  not  been  given  sufficient  start,  but 
was  game  and  speedy.  He  circled  twice 
around  the  valley,  over  such  a  rough  country 
that  only  young  Cooper  and  Luke  were  on 
his  trail  when  he  made  his  final  dash  for  lib- 
•erty.  The  other  four  Englishmen,  outrun, 
•eased  their  mounts  and  trotted  them  back  to 
the  manor-house.  The  fox  made  every  effort 
to  escape,  but  when  he  felt  his  strength  fail- 
Sng  and  the  hounds  drawing  nearer  and  near- 


68  Tales  of  The 

er,  sprang  through  an  open  window  into  the 
cottage  of  a  German  settler  named  Tobias 
Lehman.  The  old  man  ran  out  and  began 
swearing  at  the  huntsmen  and  threatened  to 
shoot  the  dogs.  He  might  have  done  so  had 
not  his  daughter,  Catharine,  a  very  pretty 
blonde  girl  of  twenty,  appeared  on  the  scene 
and  coaxed  her  father  into  the  house.  Dur- 
ing this  parley  the  fox  escaped  out  the  back 
door  of  the  cabin,  and  became  one  of  the  pro- 
genitors of  the  red  foxes  of  Pennsylvania. 
Catharine  was  a  buxom-looking  girl,  the  typi- 
cal artist's  conception  of  a  milk-maid;  her 
coloring  was  good,  her  hair  was  yellow  gold, 
and  her  grey  eyes  were  large,  but  she  had 
the  peasant's  habit  of  looking  down,  and 
could  not  meet  a  person's  gaze.  There  was 
a  smallness  and  instability  to  the  lips  that 
did  not  measure  up  to  her  rather  large,  well 
moulded  nose.  Despite  hard  work  in  fields 
and  dairy  her  hands  and  feet  were  small ;  the 
latter  were  incased  in  beaded  black  slippers, 
evidently  she  had  expected  the  denouement. 
To  young  Meredyth  Cooper  who  had  been 
shielded  from  girls  as  from  poison  ivy,  his 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  69 

father  never  having  considered  anyone  good 
enough  for  him,  the  sight  of  this  voluptuous 
mass  of  blonde  loveliness  made  a  profound 
impression.  He  continued  the  talk  about 
the  unseemly  conduct  of  the  English  fox  for 
longer  than  was  necessary,  and  when  he  re- 
mounted and  rode  homeward  he  felt  as  if  he 
had  known  "Catharine",  as  he  called  her  to 
himself,  all  his  life.  Having  had  no  prede- 
cessors in  his  heart,  she  spread  over  the 
entire  area  of  his  experience.  "Lord"  Cooper 
and  his  English  guests  had  a  grand  jollifica- 
tion that  night,  even  though  they  had  no  mask 
nor  brush  to  display.  They  imbibed  freely 
of  English  punch  and  rum  and  towards  mid- 
night one  of  the  guests  picked  up  a  hatchet 
and  said  he  was  going  out  to  the  barn  to  cut 
off  one  of  the  fox's  tails  and  have  a  brush 
anyhow.  The  others  were  too  upset  to  re- 
strain him,  and  he  might  have  done  it,  but 
that  he  fell  against  a  stucco  figure  of  Brit- 
tania  while  crossing  the  lawn  and  lay  petri- 
fied until  morning.  The  next  afternoon,  Mere- 
dyth,  who  was  glad  for  a  chance  to  get  away 
from  the  roystering  company,  rode  out  in  the 


70  Tales  of  the 

direction  of  the  Lehman  clearing.  It  occu- 
pied a  hillside  at  the  far  southwesterly  cor- 
ner of  the  valley.  "Lord"  Cooper  had  tried 
to  buy  the  piece,  which  comprised  fifty  acres, 
but  the  aged  Palatine,  who  hated  any  kind  of 
aristocrat,  stoutly  refused  to  set  a  price. 

Catharine  was  collecting  some  large  green 
pumpkins  in  a  pile  in  the  cornfield,  when  the 
young  gentleman  approached.  He  stopped 
his  horse  by  the  stump  fence,  and  the  girl 
came  to  him  eagerly  and  they  were  soon  in 
animated  conversation.  It  was  the  beginning 
of  a  romance  which  burned  furiously  while 
it  lasted.  It  was  ideallic  in  its  beginnings,  a 
sort  of  earlier  phase  of  the  Maud  Muller 
legend,  but  not  to  be  without  its  thorny 
places.  Six  months  before  Luke  Pratchett, 
the  English  stud-groom,  had  met  Catharine 
at  a  country  dance,  had  tried  to  be  atten- 
tive but  failed.  There  was  something  repul- 
sive about  under-sized  men  to  this  big  strenu- 
ous girl;  many  women  feel  the  same.  It  is 
nature  trying  to  raise  the  average  stature 
of  the  race.  No  woman  living  will  marry  a 
homely  man,  if  she  can  get  a  good  looking 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  71 

one.  Luke  was  short  and  ugly,  and  Cathar- 
ine had  scores  of  stalwart  handsome  admir- 
ers. Though  she  could  not  help  but  fancy  the 
attractive  appearance  of  Meredyth  Cooper, 
who  was  six  feet  tall,  athletically  made,  with 
graceful  aquiline  features  and  sandy  complex- 
ion, Catharine's  principal  interest  was 
aroused  by  his  exalted  station.  "Lord" 
Cooper's  distant  manner,  he  was  the  only  pro- 
fessing aristocrat  in  the  neighborhood,  his 
mansion,  his  horses,  his  entertainments,  all 
stamped  him,  and  his  son  as  well,  as  not  being 
in  the  "roll  of  common  men."  To  have  this 
scion  of  grandeur  attentive  to  her  was  far 
beyond  the  girl's  wildest  dreams. 

She  forgot  that  marriages  seldom  take 
place  between  persons  in  different  social 
grades;  caste  encamped  in  the  backwoods 
even  at  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
She  was  a  superstitious  girl  and  went  to  the 
little  mountaineers'  burial  ground  one  morn- 
ing at  dawn  and  plucked  a  sprig  of  yarrow 
from  the  grave  of  her  girl  friend,  Maggie 
Yost,  who  had  died  of  pulmonary  trouble 
the  year  before,  and  slept  with  it  under  her 


72  Tales  of  the 

pillow  that  night.  She  dreamed  of  her  aristo- 
cratic admirer,  which  was  a  sure  sign  she 
would  marry  him.  This  made  her  more  anx- 
ious than  ever  to  cultivate  his  attentions. 
Luke  Pratchett  had  noticed  ever  since  the 
afternoon  the  English  fox  had  darted  into  the 
Lehman  cabin,  that  Meredyth  took  solitary 
rides,  being  gone  for  hours  at  a  stretch. 
Formerly  he  liked  company,  and  Luke,  whose 
jealousy  was  aroused,  suspected  that  the 
young  man  was  continuing  his  chance  ac- 
quaintance with  the  fair  Catharine. 

One  afternoon  after  the  "young  lord"  had 
started  out  the  road  on  his  hunter,  the  groom 
mounted  another  animal,  and  headed  for  a 
path  which  ran  along  the  wooded  mountain 
side,  paralleling  the  highway.  His  suspicions 
were  confirmed,  as  he  saw  the  girl  come  out 
of  a  clump  of  timber  and  meet  young  Cooper, 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  down  the  road  from 
her  home.  He  was  too  angry  to  wait  to  see 
how  they  acted  towards  one  another.  Jab- 
bing the  spurs  deeply  into  his  horse,  he  gal- 
loped the  entire  distance  back  to  the  man- 
sion, a  distance  of  about  three  miles.  Luckily 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  73 

for  him  he  found  "Lord"  Cooper  in  the  sta- 
ble when  he  arrived.  He  started  to  tell  how 
he  had  been  exercising  the  horse,  and  what 
a  fine  horse  he  was,  artfully  bringing  in  that 
he  had  passed  "Master  Meredyth  on  the  road 
but  a  half  hour  ago."  He  said  it  in  such  a 
way  that  the  old  man's  curiosity  was  aroused, 
and  he  must  know  where  and  what  the  young 
fellow  was  doing.  "Same's  he's  always  a-do- 
ing,  sir,  courting  old  Tobias  Lehman's  daugh- 
ter, up  by  the  gum-stump  bridge."  The  old 
aristocrat  almost  had  a  fit ;  that  was  the  worst 
thing  he  had  ever  heard  in  his  life.  The  idea 
of  his  carefully  shielded  son,  who  was  being 
reared  for  an  heiress  or  a  princess  of  the 
blood,  nothing  less,  courting  a  member  of 
the  despised  German  race,  was  horrifying  in 
the  extreme.  Fratchett  urged  him  not  to 
divulge  his  name  as  the  informant,  to  which 
the  old  man  promptly  agreed,  only  to  forget 
his  promise  as  he  started  out  the  barn  door. 

It  was  a  chilly  night  in  November,  and  the 
old  man  was  sitting  before  the  fire,  while  his 
colored  cook,  an  importation  from  the  Eng- 
lish colony  of  Jamaica,  was  roasting  a  wood- 


74  Tales  of  The 

cock,  entrails  and  all,  on  a  spit.  The  rich 
aroma  of  the  luscious  bird  dilated  the  old 
"lord's"  nostrils,  and  his  gouty  hands  were 
folded  across  his  stomach,  as  he  waited  for  the 
gastronomic  debauch  to  commence.  Sudden- 
ly the  door  opened,  sweeping  in  with  it  a  gust 
of  that  incisive,  crisp,  steel-toned  air,  smell- 
ing just  a  bit  of  the  moss  and  fallen  leaves, 
that  is  so  characteristic  of  November  nights 
in  the  Bald  Eagle  Mountains.  Like  a  symbol 
of  this  vitalizing  breeze,  in  strode  the  sturdy 
form  of  Meredyth  Cooper.  The  old  man  for- 
got his  precious  woodcock,  and  leaped  from 
his  pink  plush  easy-chair,  which  had  been  im- 
ported from  England,  as  if  shot  up  from  a 
spiral.  He  charged  the  young  man  with  dis- 
gracing an  honored  name  by  consorting  with 
his  inferiors,  with  carrying  on  a  vulgar  in- 
trigue with  a  scheming  woman,  with  planning 
to  marry  without  asking  his  father's  consent, 
all  courses  of  action  so  opposed  to  one  an- 
other as  to  make  the  whole  outbreak  unpar- 
donable. The  young  man  listened  respect- 
fully a  minute,  then  stooping  down  he  un- 
buckled his  spurs,  laying  them  beside  his  rid- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  75 

ing-crop  on  a  table  and  quietly  marched  up- 
stairs. In  the  excitement,  the  Jamaica  negro, 
overcome  with  anxiety  to  hear  every  word  of 
the  argument,  let  the  woodcock  drop  into  the 
coals  and  it  was  burnt  to  a  cinder. 

The  old  man,  after  his  son  had  left,  called 
for  brandy  and  consumed  a  whole  decanter- 
full  before  his  servants  helped  him  off  to  his 
bedroom,  which  with  rare  foresight  was  locat- 
ed on  the  first  floor.  But  that  ended  the 
ideallic  period  of  the  young  man's  romance 
with  Catharine  Lehman.  He  continued  going 
to  see  her,  but  was  harrassed  before  he  went 
and  after  he  returned,  until  he  thought  of 
moving  into  the  stable  for  peace.  His  mother 
and  sister  who  had  been  in  Philadelphia,  re- 
turned, and  were  told  the  whole  story.  They 
made  no  comment,  which  angered  the  old  man 
considerably.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  "Lord" 
Cooper's  health  was  shattered  by  his  son's 
love  affair;  that  is,  he  drank  heavily,  and  it 
told  on  his  system.  He  had  several  fainting 
spells,  and  would  lay  up  for  days  recovering 
from  his  over-indulgences^  all  of  which  had 
their  effect  on  his  wife  and  daughter.  Noth- 


76  Tales  of  The 

ing  was  said,  but  the  young  man  resolved  to 
tell  the  girl  how  he  was  situated,  and  give 
her  up  for  the  sake  of  the  general  family 
welfare.  He  loved  her  as  he  would  never  love 
again,  but  he  believed  in  duty  first. 

The  first  snow  had  fallen  when  he  drove 
out  with  the  chinkling  of  sleigh-bells,  in  his 
low-built,  old-fashioned  cutter.  The  drive 
lay  through  a  forest  of  virgin  pines  and  hem- 
locks ;  old  man  Lehman's  was  the  only  clear- 
ing between  the  mansion  and  the  pass 
through  the  mountain.  The  moon,  striving 
hard  to  shine  down  between  the  dusky  ever- 
green boughs  which  arched  the  way,  lit  up  the 
road  here  and  there  in  patches  of  pale  blue 
light.  The  horse  was  jogging  along  nicely, 
when  all  of  a  sudden  he  stopped  short, 
snorting  and  pawing  like  a  wild  thing.  Mere- 
dyth  had  barely  enough  time  to  see  a  large 
red  fox  disappear  into  the  laurels  not  twenty 
feet  ahead.  "That  must  be  the  animal  that 
introduced  me  to  "Catharine",  he  murmured, 
half  amused,  to  himself.  Old  Lehman  and 
his  wife  had  climbed  the  ladder  to  bed  when 
the  young  man  arrived,  and  he  had  no  listen- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  77 

ers  when  he  began  his  sad  story  of  blighted 
hopes.  He  could  see  the  girl's  face  plainly  in 
the  firelight ;  when  he  told  her  he  could  never 
marry  her,  he  noticed  to  his  surprise  that  her 
countenance  never  changed.  She  expressed 
the  deepest  regrets,  but  they  were  disappoint- 
ed worldly  hopes  speaking;  the  wounded  soul 
speaks  through  the  face,  through  the  eyes. 
Meredyth  was  at  a  loss  to  understand  the 
composed  manner  with  which  she  accepted 
her  altered  destiny,  but  ascribed  it  to  her 
courageous  nature,  inured  to  hardships. 

Before  they  parted  a  few  tears  were  shed 
— by  him ;  her  eyes  showed  no  emotion.  They 
pledged  eternal  fealty  to  one  another ;  even  if 
they  could  not  marry,  they  would  always  love. 
"It  is  a  terrible  blow  to  her",  thought  the 
young  man,  as  he  let  the  lines  lie  loosely  on 
the  horse's  back,  and  take  its  own  gait  home. 

Next  day  he  told  his  father  what  he  had 
done,  but  the  old  man  did  not  even  thank  him. 
He  turned  his  back  and  poured  out  a  big 
drink  of  brandy.  Instead  of  making  condi- 
tions more  congenial  in  the  household,  rela- 


78  Tales  of  The 

tions  between  father  and  son  were  more 
strained  than  before. 

In  order  to  cheer  himself  up  the  young  man 
went  on  a  trip  to  Philadelphia  where  he  vis* 
ited  old  school-mates  and  relatives.  His  moth- 
er wrote  him  regularly,  but  his  father  never. 
None  of  them  mentioned  the  name  of  Cathar- 
ine Lehman,  and  he  dared  not  ask  after  her 
for  fear  of  arousing  the  paternal  ire» 
Often  in  the  cold  loneliness  of  inn-bedrooms, 
he  was  sorely  tempted  to  take  out  quill  and 
paper  and  write  to  her,  again  confessing  his 
hopeless  love  and  commiserating  her  on  the 
loneliness  she  must  be  enduring  in  that  log- 
cabin  on  the  lonely  mountain  side. 

But  he  fought  these  inclinations  to  the  fin- 
ish, and  in  April  returned  home,  more  cheer- 
ful, but  with  lines  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth, 
the  signature  of  his  battle  for  soul  mastery. 
All  seemed  the  same  at  the  mansion,  except 
that  Luke  Pratchett  acted  more  assertive  and 
arrogant  than  when  he  had  gone  away.  He 
actually  ordered  "Lord"  Cooper  about,  a  thing 
that,  Englishman  though  he  was,  he  never 
dared  before. 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  79 

The  morning  after  his  arrival,  he  sauntered 
out  to  the  stables  to  look  at  the  horses;  sev- 
eral foals,  sired  by  the  Derby  winner,  had 
lately  appeared,  and  he  was  curious  to  see 
what  they  were  like.  As  he  stood  with 
Pratchett  before  the  stall  of  the  horse  he  had 
driven  out  to  see  Catharine  Lehman  the  last 
night  he  was  with  her,  the  impulse  to  ask 
after  her  rose  so  strongly  within  him,  he  had 
to  bite  his  tongue  to  desist.  Pratchett  seemed 
to  divine  his  struggle  and  gloated.  H« 
watched  the  young  man  for  several  minute-*- 
and  then  blurted  out  cold-bloodedly:  "Sav 
Master  Meredyth,  did  you  hear  of  Catharine 
Lehman's  marriage  to  Andy  McClanachan  in 
February  Tf  Meredyth  tried  to  appear  un- 
concerned, shifting  from  one  foot  to  another 
and  answered  "yes,  yes, — I  did."  "I  never 
saw  a  happier  couple  in  my  life,  sir,  she's  just 
devotion  itself."  The  young  man's  face  was 
ghastly  pale,  and  Pratchett  was  exultant. 
Six  months  before,  when  the  McClanachan 
boys  had  whipped  him  he  would  not  have  ex- 
patiated on  the  triumph  of  one  of  them  as  a 
husband.  Now  it  was  different,  his  worsi 


80  Tales  of  The 

enemy  would  have  been  eligible  to  the  hero 
class  in  order  to  crush  his  young  master,  of 
whom  he  was  insanely  jealous.  It  seemed  to 
Meredyth  as  if  the  horses  had  lost  their 
charm,  in  fact  the  stable  seemed  to  swim  like 
the  cabin  of  a  ship  in  a  tempest  in  the  Gulf 
of  Lyons.  He  hurried  out  into  the  balmy 
sunshine,  and  in  returning  to  the  house  inad- 
vertently passed  the  pen  where  the  eleven 
English  foxes  still  flourished.  Old  Cooper 
had  not  hunted  since  the  memorable  day. 

With  a  muttered  curse,  he  kicked  tfte 
latch  loose,  and  pounding  on  the  top  of  the 
box  with  his  stick,  sent  the  batch  of 
animals  bounding  into  freedom.  Like  seeds 
in  a  gale,  they  flew  in  every  direction,  but 
their  deliverer  did  not  watch  them;  he  was 
seeking  the  quiet  of  his  room.  On  the  grana 
staircase  he  met  his  father,  who  noted  his 
unquiet  demeanor.  He  suspected  the  cause, 
adding  insult  to  injury  by  remarking  "wen, 
son,  that  Lehman  girl  didn't  care  for  you 
after  all;  she's  married  a  fine  man,  and  they 
say  they  are  getting  along  splendidly."  The 
next  thing  the  old  man  heard  was  the  door 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  81 

of  his  son's  room  slamming  loudly.  The  young 
man  did  not  come  down  to  dinner  that  day; 
he  sent  word  he  was  indisposed. 

In  the  evening  he  announced  that  he  was 
going  to  Philadelphia  on  the  next  stage,  and 
from  there  would  sail  for  England.  The  first 
pert  of  the  speech  shocked  the  old  man,  but 
the  second  part  gained  his  consent.  "By  all 
means  go,  my  boy,"  he  said.  He  realized  he 
had  humiliated  his  son,  and  would  give  him 
a  trip  to  England  to  harmonize  matters.  The 
next  day  the  yoimg  fallow  was  ferried  across 
the  river  to  Williamsport  where  he  boarded 
the  east-bound  stag?.  He  went  to  Philadel- 
phia, he  went  to  England.  But  lie  also  went 
to  France  where  he  remained,  becoming  one 
of  the  earliest  American  expatriates.  Hav- 
ing some  money  in  his  own  right  by  inheri- 
tance, he  could  not  be  induced  to  return. 
v'Lord"  Cooper  never  felt  equal  to  go  after 
him,  and  a  trip  undertaken  by  the  sorrowing 
mother  and  sister  availed  nothing.  He  had 
loved  once,  deeply  and  for  all  time;  but  in 
return  he  held  a  mass  of  shucks.  They  say 
that  in  his  old  days  he  shook  like  a  leaf  when 


Tales  of  The  Bald  Eagle  Mountains 


he  heard  the  bugle  of  the  foxhunters  in  the 
Forest  of  Rambouillet. 


IV. 


THE  VIEW  TREE 
(Story  of  Dubozstown  Mountain) 


F  all  animals  Peter  Pentz 
most  disliked  to  kill  a  wolf. 
He  would  never  do  so  when 
alone,  no  matter  how  they 
harassed  him.  Sometimes 
when  he  was  with  women 
and  children  travelling 
through  the  depths  of  the 
forests  and  the  hungry 
packs  threatened  to  sweep  across  the  caravan 
devouring  everything,  he  would  join  in  the 
general  fusillade  for  protection.  Whenever 
he  found  settlers  setting  out  poisons  or  traps, 
he  would  use  his  influence  to  get  them  to  de- 
sist. But  he  showed  no  mercy  to  other  ani- 
mals. 

He  said  that  a  wolf  had  once  saved  his  life, 
and  only  an  Indian  would  be  mean  enough 
to  be  ungrateful  He  ascribed  to  wolves 


84  Tales  of  The 

in  general  supernatural  intelligence.  He 
often  pointed  out  that  witches  and  spooks 
generally  took  the  form  of  wolves  when  it 
was  to  their  advantage  to  become  animals 
for  a  time.  That  was  nothing  against  the 
wolves,  it  was  a  compliment  to  their  sagacity 
and  keenness.  Wolves  in  Central  Pennsyl- 
vania might  have  dwindled  to  next  to  noth- 
ing a  decade  or  two  before  they  did,  but  for 
the  restraining  influence  of  Peter  Pentz. 
"There  is  good  in  a  wolf"  was  his  familiar 
slogan. 

Often  when  he  was  spending  the  night  at 
the  pioneers'  cabins,  lurid  tales  about  wolf 
hunts  would  be  retailed,  but  the  stalwart 
frontiersman  always  disparaged  these  experi- 
ences. But  he  enjoyed  hearing  the  children 
of  William  Crispin,  a  settler  who  lived  at  the 
foot  of  lower  McElhattan  Mountain,  tell  how 
a  wolf  had  followed  them  to  school  every 
morning  for  a  week.  "William,  you  did  wrong 
to  shoot  that  wolf,"  he  said,  "it  only  wanted 
to  act  as  a  bodyguard  to  your  little  folks  to 
keep  off  the  bears  and  panthers."  When  all 
the  disadvantages  of  wolves  had  been  dis- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  85 

cussed,  Peter  would  tell  his  side  of  the  ques- 
tion, invariably  winding  up  with  the  story  of 
how  the  wolf  had  saved  his  life. 

Once  when  a  pompous  young  lawyer  said 
that  the  story  proved  nothing  except  the  the- 
ory of  coincidences,  it  is  related  that  the  old 
hunter  became  positively  angry,  and  refused 
to  say  another  word  all  evening.  He  literally 
shamed  the  attorney  into  feeling  he  didn't 
want  to  spend  the  night  at  that  particular 
cabin  after  all.  But  the  host  dissuaded  him 
from  going,  and  next  morning  Peter  was  as 
genial  and  affable  as  was  his  wont. 

"I  really  do  believe,"  said  one  old  settler  to 
him,  "if  your  life  had  been  saved  by  a  deer, 
the  woods  would  be  full  of  them  today.  What 
a  pity  you  think  you  owe  something  to  such 
a  cursed  varmint  as  a  wolf."  But  Peter  could 
not  be  shaken  in  his  belief  concerning  wolves, 
even  when  he  was  told  that  the  wolf  which 
saved  his  life  might  not  have  been  a  wolf 
after  all,  but  merely  one  of  these  witches  in 
wolf's  form.  They  used  to  say  a  witch  loved 
him,  and  that  was  why  he  escaped  the  Indians 
so  often. 


86  Tales  of  the 

No  man  without  immortal  assistance,  could 
have  run  the  risks  he  did  and  lived  to  tell 
the  tale.  But  Peter  insisted  that  his  life  had 
been  saved  by  a  real  wolf,  and  nothing  could 
shake  him.  It  had  happened  along  the 
north  slope  of  the  mountain  which  rises  above 
the  present  village  of  Duboistown,  in  the  days 
when  the  Indians,  desperate  from  persistent 
defeats,  were  resorting  to  the  cruellest  deeds 
to  indelibly  impress  their  waning  presence  on 
the  land. 

Peter,  with  his  boon  companion,  Almiral 
de  Gruchy,  were  tramping  one  snowy  Sunday 
morning  along  the  trail  which  crossed  from 
Nippenose  Valley  into  Mosquito  Valley,  when 
they  noticed  something  stirring  unsteadily 
in  a  rhododendron  thicket  alongside  the  path- 
way. Both  men  raised  their  rifles,  and  were 
about  to  fire,  when  Peter's  keen  eyes  noticed 
that  the  object  was  evidently  a  wounded  wolf, 
and  an  enormous  one  at  that.  "Don't  shoot," 
he  commanded,  "let's  see  what's  the  matter 
with  the  critter."  This  was  a  strange  order, 
but  de  Gruchy  believed  in  his  companion  im- 
plicitly, and  would  have  dropped  his  firearm 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  87 

even  if  told  to  do  so  in  the  face  of  an  Indian 
brandishing  a  tomahawk.  But  Peter  Pentz 
was  never  able  to  analyze  the  impulse  which 
made  him  spare  that  wolf.  Formerly  he  had 
killed  these  animals  by  the  scores.  He  had 
been  a  leader  of  "drives"  which  had  rounded 
up  and  slaughtered  vast  numbers  of  wolves, 
foxes,  bears  and  other  so-called  predatory 
beasts.  On  this  occasion  he  was  sparing  a 
wounded  wolf,  which  might  even  prove  a  bur- 
den to  itself.  He  stooped  down  where  the 
creature  was  crouched,  noticing  that  one  of 
its  fore  paws  had  sustained  a  compound  frac- 
ture, and  dangled  loose  from  the  broken  joint. 
Evidently  it  had  been  caught  in  a  trap,  but 
had  drawn  the  foot  free,  but  not  without 
mangling  it  horribly. 

The  injured  wolf  looked  up  at  him  with  its 
dark,  liquid  eyes;  the  millennium  had  ar- 
rived, it  could  hardly  believe  its  senses.  Peter 
cut  some  white  oak  twigs  and  shaved  off 
the  rough  bark.  These  he  placed  as  splints, 
on  the  wounded  foot,  tying  them  securely 
with  a  piece  of  the  inner  lining  of  his  buffalo 
coat. 


Tales  of  The 


Meanwhile  the  animal  kept  eyeing  him  in- 
tently but  never  once  offered  to  snap  or  even 
grind  its  teeth.  Almiral  de  Gruchy  stood 
nearby,  with  rifle  ready,  so  as  to  fire  if  dan- 
ger threatened,  but  this  precaution  was 
unnecessary.  When  the  surgical  task  was 
finished,  Peter  set  the  wolf  on  its  feet,  and  it 
was  able  to  walk  without  much  difficulty.  No- 
ticing that  it  was  lean  from  lack  of  food — it 
would  have  starved  to  death  but  for  the  time- 
ly arrival  of  the  Samaritan — he  took  a  piece 
of  dried  venison  out  of  his  coat  pocket,  and 
threw  it  to  the  beast.  This  it  ate  ravenously, 
rolling  its  eyes  with  evident  pleasure. 

Leaving  the  animal  in  this  happy  frame  of 
mind,  the  two  hunters  went  their  way.  "I 
never  would  have  thought  that  of  you,  Peter", 
said  de  Gruchy  after  they  had  proceeded  a 
hundred  yards.  "Nor  I,  Almiral,"  he  replied, 
"some  instinct  made  me  help  that  particular 
wolf,  though  if  I  met  a  dozen  more  this  morn- 
ing, I'd  kill  every  one."  "Why  don't  you  go 
back  and  fix  that  one?  I  don't  think  it's  gone 
very  far,"  said  de  Gruchy.  "No,"  answered 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  89 

Peter,  "I  sent  it  on  its  way  rejoicing,  I  can- 
not go  back." 

They  met  other  wolf  tracks  crossing  and 
re-crossing  the  trail  before  they  reached  de 
Gruchy's  cabin  at  the  head  of  Mosquito  Val- 
ley, but  saw  none  of  the  animals.  During 
the  remainder  of  the  winter  both  men  were 
fortunate  enough  to  kill  a  number  of 
wolves,  and  Peter  never  once  displayed  evi- 
dences of  the  compassion  which  moved  him 
on  that  snowy  Sunday  morning.  With  the 
advent  of  Spring,  Indian  troubles  took  the 
place  of  hunting,  and  the  bold  pioneers  were 
too  busy  guarding  their  scalps  to  bother  about 
the  comings  and  goings  of  the  animals. 

One  bright  August  noon  de  Gruchy  was 
sitting  by  his  cabin  door,  watching  his  cow, 
which  was  pasturing  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  streamlet.  He  heard  stealthy  footsteps 
approaching,  and  raised  his  rifle  for  protec- 
tion. All  at  once  he  heard  a  loud  guffaw  and 
beheld  the  big  round  face,  and  the  shock  of 
wiry,  sandy-colored  hair,  of  Peter  Pentz, 
peering  out  of  the  underbrush.  He  hadn't 
seen  his  old  companion  for  several  months, 


90  Tales  of  The 

and  jumped  up  shouting  "Oh,  Peter,  I  almost 
took  you  for  an  Indian!"  The  big  frontiers- 
man came  nearer,  laughing  until  his  thick 
lips  stretched  from  ear  to  ear.  Then  the  two 
friends  shook  hands,  and  sat  side  by  side  on 
the  door-sill,  smoking,  and  exchanging  remi- 
niscences. Peter  had  brought  his  favorite 
dog  Sade  with  him;  she  was  a  sagacious  crea- 
ture, and  joined  de  Gruchy's  hound  Mingo  in 
tonguing  about  the  adjacent  hillsides.  'They 
must  be  trailing  a  bear,"  said  Peter,  "it's  a 
little  too  loud  for  a  rabbit  or  a  fox."  Both 
men  instinctively  took  a  grip  on  their  rifles 
in  case  any  wild  animal  should  precipitate 
itself  towards  them  from  the  brush.  But 
they  had  placed  too  low  an  estimate  on  the 
character  of  their  dog's  bait.  A  bullet,  whiz- 
zing through  the  air,  went  through  one  of 
de  Gruchy's  eyes,  and  he  was  a  dead  man  in 
an  instant.  A  second  and  a  third  shot  taught 
Peter  to  "make  himself  scarce,"  as  he  was  no 
match  for  a  foe  in  ambush.  He  trotted  down 
the  path  towards  the  more  open  part  of  the 
valley,  whistling  and  calling  for  Sade  to  fol- 
low him.  The  only  answer  he  got  was  an- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  91 


other  fusillade,  one  bullet  knocking  off  the 
bucktail  plume  in  his  cap.  He  felt  he  was 
"in  for"  a  long  race,  so  he  stopped  long 
enough  to  fill  his  canteen  at  a  "boiling" 
spring.  He  travelled  quite  a  distance,  and 
not  hearing  any  more  shots,  began  to  look 
about  for  a  place  of  safety.  It  would  be  best, 
he  thought,  to  lay  up  for  the  night  in  a  tall 
treo.  It  was  a  hostile  country,  but  by  morn- 
ing light  he  could  climb  down  and  cross  the 
river,  there  to  ally  himself  with  some  armed 
band  of  white  men.  While  looking  about  for 
a  suitable  retreat  he  came  into  a  windfall,  or 
large  opening,  on  the  northerly  slope  of  the 
Duboistown  Mountain. 

Near  the  centre  of  this  natural  clearing 
stood  a  single  tree,  a  chestnut  of  immense 
height,  spared  as  if  by  a  miracle.  Different 
in  form  from  most  trees  of  its  species,  it  was 
a  typical  forest  king.  The  long,  smooth,  ser- 
pentine trunk,  at  the  butt  not  more  than  two 
feet  in  diameter,  rose  into  the  air  upwards  of 
ninety  feet.  On  the  top  was  a  round,  heavily 
foliaged  head,  compact  as  a  cabbage,  and  per- 
haps thirty  feet  in  height. 


92  Tales  of  The 

Peter  Pents,  big  and  heavy  as  he  was,  re- 
tained much  of  the  agility  of  his  boyhood 
days  when  he  was  called  "the  pine  squirrel." 
Slinging  his  rifle  over  his  shoulder,  he  began 
"shinning"  up  the  tree.  Occasionally  he  found 
the  remnant  of  a  branch  broken  off  years  be- 
fore, to  take  a  hold  on  but  most  of  the  dis- 
tance was  overcome  by  skill  and  sheer  pluck. 
As  he  neared  the  leafy  "top,"  he  caught  a 
view  of  the  river,  with  the  red  rays  of  the  set- 
ting sun  mirrored  upon  it.  Far  to  the  north, 
at  the  foothills  of  the  Alleghanies,  he  made 
out  several  settlers'  clearings,  with  thin  tails 
of  grey  smoke  rising  from  the  mud  chimneys 
of  the  cabins.  All  was  peace  and  rest,  and 
supper-time,  off  there. 

Further  away,  on  the  distant  summits, 
were  finer  tails  of  smoke,  probably  from  In- 
dian campfires.  He  could  discern  from  this 
"view  tree"  where  to  go  on  the  morrow,  and 
where  to  keep  clear  of.  It  was  with  a  sense 
of  genuine  elation  that  he  grasped  the  first 
branch  of  the  top,  to  know  that  he  was  safe 
in  his  sylvan  eyrie.  He  pulled  himself  up  into 
the  thicket,  but  as  he  did  so,  he  was  almost 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  93 

dislodged  and  thrown  by  a  pair  of  Cooper's 
hawks  striking  him  in  the  face  with  their 
stiff  sharp  wings.  One  of  his  eyes  was  badly 
scraped,  and  pained  him  frightfully.  But  he 
was  able  to  draw  his  knife,  and  stabbed  both 
birds  until  they  squeaked  and  gibbered  in 
pain,  and  flew  away  with  checkered,  unsteady 
winging.  Then  he  seized  the  nest,  which  was 
built  in  a  cradle  of  dead  branches  in  the  very 
kernel  of  the  "top,"  and  hurled  it,  fledglings 
and  all  to  the  jagged  rocks  a  hundred  feet 
below.  He  unstrapped  his  gun,  his  canteen, 
and  took  out  his  packet  of  provisions,  deposit- 
ing them  in  the  "cradle"  where  the  nest  had 
been.  He  twisted  himself  into  a  comfortable 
position,  to  wait  until  morning,  or  until  his 
f  oemen  had  passed.  The  branches  hung  thick 
with  the  green  prickly  burrs,  of  unsual  size; 
even  now  some  of  them  would  be  big  enough 
to  eat. 

He  had  barely  settled  himself  when  the  In- 
dian band  on  a  dog  trot  hove  in  sight.  There 
were  eight  in  the  party,  and  four  of  them 
carried  guns.  He  held  his  breath,  and  mut- 
tered a  wish  that  they  would  pass  by.  To 


94  Tales  of  The 

his  great  joy,  they  moved  by  the  giant  tree 
in  single  file,  neither  looking  to  the  right  nor 
the  left,  nor  into  the  heights  above !  He  felt 
he  was  tolerably  safe.  Just  as  he  was  about 
to  heave  a  sigh  of  satisfaction,  a  ninth  Indian, 
a  cripple,  appeared  in  the  opening.  This  In- 
dian, on  account  of  his  affliction,  travelled 
slowly,  and  kept  glancing  about  him  with  fur- 
tive, inquisitive  eyes.  As  luck  would  have  it, 
they  rested  upon  the  shattered  hawks'  nest, 
with  the  crushed  and  dying  fledglings  lying 
about.  His  quick  wits  told  him  some  agent, 
other  than  the  wind,  must  have  dislodged  this 
stoutly  built  nest.  By  the  looks  it  had  fallen 
recently;  even  if  a  wind  might  possibly  have 
done  it,  it  could  not  right  now;  it  was  dead 
calm.  He  looked  into  the  dizzy  top  of  the 
mammoth  tree ;  he  could  see  nothing,  the  ver- 
dure was  so  thick,  and  dusk  was  at  hand. 
But  he  was  not  satisfied,  and  uttered  a  war- 
whoop,  which  brought  the  eight  redmen  who 
had  gone  ahead,  trooping  to  his  side.  He 
pointed  to  the  nest,  the  fledglings,  and  to  cer- 
tain scraped  places  on  the  bark  of  the  tree 
trunk,  which  meant  the  fugitive  was  "up 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  95 

there."  The  Indians  strained  their  eyes,  but 
likewise  saw  nothing.  One  of  them  fired  three 
shots,  but  they  whizzed  by  the  hidden  fron- 
tiersman's head,  doing  no  damage.  But  the 
Indians  were  convinced  he  was  in  the  tree  top, 
so  they  sat  down,  to  wait  until  morning,  when 
they  could  see  more  clearly.  At  dark  they  lit 
a  campfire  around  which  they  sat,  passing 
the  time  chanting  a  low,  mournful  war  dirge. 
Some  of  them  fell  asleep,  and  the  sight  of 
them  dropping  over  into  involuntary  dream- 
land made  it  difficult  for  Peter  to  keep  him- 
self awake.  Sleepiness,  like  its  earlier  stage 
"gapping,"  is  contagious. 

Just  as  the  crimson  dawn  was  flaming  over 
the  eastern  mountains,  the  two  hawks  hove  in 
sight,  floating  along  unsteadily,  as  if  in  pain. 
They  had  nursed  their  wounds  over  night  on 
some  remote  crag,  they  were  now  coming 
back  to  try  and  recover  their  home.  The  In- 
dians saw  them  as  quickly  as  did  Peter,  and 
wasted  two  good  rounds  of  ammunition  on 
them  to  bring  them  down.  The  hidden  pio- 
neer wished  he  could  thank  the  Indians  for 
this  service. 


96  Tales  of  The 

As  soon  as  light  was  well  established,  the 
Indians  began  their  scrutiny  of  the  tree-top 
afresh.  They  fancied  they  saw  him,  and  he 
kept  wondering  if  one  of  their  number  would 
attempt  to  climb  the  trunk,  and  give  him  bat- 
tle in  the  dizzy  height!  But  they  seemed 
content  to  shoot  in  his  direction  from  time  to 
time;  it  seemed  a  marvellous  circumstance 
they  did  not  hit  him.  Perhaps  they  were  not 
trying  very  hard  but  were  waiting  to  starve 
him  out,  and  take  him  alive.  It  would  be 
great  sport  to  burn  such  a  noted  Indian  killer 
at  the  stake. 

Peter  figured  he  had  provisions  enough  to 
last  three  days,  after  that  he  could  live  a 
while  longer  eating  unripe  chestnuts.  He 
had  water  enough  for  several  days,  that  was 
the  most  important  necessity.  The  chief  dan- 
ger was  in  falling  asleep ;  if  he  did  he  would 
surely  tumble  from  his  perch.  How  long  he 
could  fight  sleep  was  a  question  he  could  not 
answer.  Even  the  night  before  it  had  almost 
gotten  the  better  of  him  on  several  occasions. 
But  he  would  not  surrender  to  his  foes;  if 
he  dozed  and  fell,  it  wasn't  his  fault. 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  97 

All  went  smoothly  until  sunset,  when  he 
felt  sleep  stealing  on  him  with  almost  irre- 
sistible fury.  Then  he  observed  a  fresh  peril. 
The  Indians,  after  a  council  together,  built  a 
hot  fire  arcund  the  butt  of  the  tree.  He  was 
to  be  burnt  out  in  true  Indian  fashion  and 
would  be  killed  with  the  fall.  That  was  the 
Indian's  method  of  felling  trees  before  axes 
were  introduced  by  the  white  men.  His  bold 
soul  trembled. 

In  the  distance  to  the  South,  he  heard  a 
yelping  and  barking.  Could  Sade  and 
Mingo  have  caught  the  trail  and  be  com- 
ing to  his  rescue,  leading  a  party  of  pio- 
neers? But  no,  it  wasn't  dogs  barking;  it 
was  the  sound  of  wolves,  of  very  hungry 
wolves.  Now  there  would  be  some  fun.  Evi- 
dently the  Indians  were  apprehensive,  as  they 
fired  a  half  dozen  more  shots,  ostensibly  at  the 
top  of  the  tree,  but  plainly  to  frighten  the  on- 
coming pack.  But  the  wolves  were  daunt- 
less. Nearer  and  nearer  they  advanced. 
Soon,  in  the  dusk,  at  the  edge  of  the  windfall, 
a  long  row  of  eyes  like  the  lights  of  a  city 
at  night,  gleamed  and  glared,  at  the  Indian 


Tales  of  The 


watchers.  They  fired  several  shots,  which 
seemed  to  infuriate  the  animals,  which,  yell- 
ing like  fiends,  rushed  forward  en  masse, 
driving  the  Indians  before  them  like  chaff 
from  a  winnower.  The  fire  about  the  tree 
had  not  made  very  great  headway  when  the 
wolves  appeared,  and  smouldered  down  to  a 
lot  of  smoking  embers  during  the  excitement. 
This  was  some  relief  to  the  refugee,  but  he 
hated  the  prospect  of  dropping,  in  his  sleep, 
in  the  midst  of  a  pack,  which  now  that  they 
were  all  out  in  the  open  in  the  windfall,  must 
contain  five  hundred  snarling  snapping  ani- 
mals. Then  to  his  surprise,  he  noticed  a  black 
wolf,  larger  and  more  masculine,  evidently 
the  leader  of  the  pack,  every  pack  has  its 
acknowledged  leader,  approach  the  hot  coals 
around  the  tree  and  try  to  beat  them  out  with 
its  paws.  On  looking  closer,  he  noticed  the 
animal  was  lame,  could  it  be  the  wolf  that  he 
had  befriended  on  the  Bastress  ridge  the  win- 
ter before?  Just  then  the  brute  looked  up- 
wards, it  seemed  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  him, 
for  it  wagged  its  bushy  tail,  and  began 
thrashing  out  the  hot  coals  more  vigorously 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains 


than  ever.  The  other  wolves  circled  about, 
yelping  and  sniffing  the  air,  sometimes  rolling 
over  one  another  with  antic  playfulness. 
While  thus  gamboling,  the  Indians  caught 
them  off  their  guard.  Stealthily  creeping 
back  they  fired  a  deadly  broadside  into  the 
pack.  There  was  a  chorus  of  hideous  howls 
of  pain,  and  a  dozen  brutes  lay  dead  upon  the 
rocks.  The  rest,  stirred  into  a  frenzy,  turned 
•on  the  over-confident  redmen,  surrounding 
them,  and  cutting  off  their  means  of 
escape.  Leaping  at  their  throats,  and 
tripping  them,  they  laid  their  enemies 
low,  like  a  plow  in  a  fallow.  Where  a  minute 
before  had  stood  nine  savages,  some  with 
smoking  rifles,  nothing  now  was  visible  but 
the  dark,  ever-moving  surface,  a  wriggling, 
howling  mass  of  hairy  beasts.  They  had  lit- 
terally  buried  their  foes  beneath  them.  Every 
few  minutes  the  '"king"  wolf  with  his  lame 
leg,  would  come  near  to  the  chestnut  tree,  and 
leap  up  against  the  trunk,  like  a  friendly  dog, 
hanging  out  his  tongue,  and  wagging  his  tail. 
It  took  Feter  some  time  to  convince  himself 
that  the  wolves  meant  no  harm,  but  still  he 


100  Tales  of  The 

hesitated  about  descending*  After  the  pack 
had  chewed  the  dead  Indians  into  unrecog- 
nizable pulp,  the  lame  wolf  gave  vent  to  a 
series  of  howls,  as  musical  as  a  bugle  call,  and 
all  the  pack  came  together  in  a  solid  phalanx, 
and  trotted  off  into  the  forest.  The  lame  wolf 
remained  behind,  curling  himself  up  at  the 
foot  of  the  tree  like  a  collie. 

Peter  began  to  feel  sleepy  again;  come 
what  may,  he  must  descend.  It  would  be 
dangerous  to  encumber  himself  with  the 
heavy  rifle  so  he  left  it  in  the  abandoned 
hawks'  nest.  It  was  much  harder  to  work 
down  the  smooth  trunk  than  up;  his  heart 
was  in  his  mouth,  the  slightest  wavering  or 
slip  meant  a  fall  of  nearly  a  hundred  feet  and 
ignominious  death.  But  the  same  kind  Fate 
which  saw  him  up  the  tree,  guarded  his  de- 
scent, and  he  landed  on  terra  firma,  thank- 
ful, happy,  free.  The  lame  wolf  got  up, 
stretching  himself  like  a  friendly  dog,  and 
hopped  over  to  him,  jumping  upon  him,  lick- 
ing his  great  sinewy  hands.  Peter  stroked 
and  patted  him  many  times,  and  gave  him 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains 


101 


his  last  piece  of  provision.     Then  man  and 
beast  went  their  respective  ways. 


VI. 


THE  BROWN  BEAR 
(Story  of  Nippeno  Mountain) 


HERE  were  at  least  four 
kinds  of  bears  in  Pennsyl- 
vania at  the  close  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  To- 
day, but  two  varieties  are 
found,  and  these,  the  hog 
bear  and  the  dog  bear,  are 
commonly  confused  as  one 

_Jira_ species.     The  hog  bear  is 

short-nosed,  broad-faced,  of  chubby  build, 
and  makes  excellent  eating,  his  flesh  being 
tasty  like  pork,  while  the  dog  bear,  which  is 
the  scarcer  variety,  has  a  long  pointed 
snout,  small  ears,  long  thin  legs,  and  his  flesh 
tastes  like  that  of  a  canine,  that  is  if  there 
are  persons  competent  to  say  so.  The  va- 
rieties which  are  probably  extirpated  were 
the  white  faced  bear  and  the  brown  bear. 
The  white  faced  bear  was  commonly  met  with 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  103 

in  the  Northeastern  part  of  the  State,  a  good 
description  of  one  is  to  be  found  in  Black- 
man's  "History  of  Susquehanna  County." 

The  brown  bear  was  found  pretty  much 
all  over  the  Northern  and  Central  sections 
of  the  Commonwealth,  and  grew  to  greater 
size  than  any  of  the  other  three  kinds.  He 
vs^as  probably  related  to  the  brown  bears  of 
Europe,  as  he  resembled  them  more  than  our 
silver  tips  or  grizzlies  of  the  west,  or  even 
the  Alaskan  brown  bears.  Some  black  bears 
have  a  few  brown  or  reddish  hairs  but  they 
are  not  the  true  brov/n  bears. 

The  last  brown  bear  was  probably  killed 
in  Bradford  County,  in  1882,  by  Thomas 
Leahy,  a  noted  hunter  of  that  region. 
Another  was  killed  earlier  in  the  same  year 
in  Lycoming  County.*  They  were  accounted 
by  far  the  most  savage  of  all  the  bears,  as 
the  black  varieties,  and  even  the  white-faced 
bears  possessed  marked  social  instincts. 
Stories  of  how  the  brown  bear  attacked 
hunters  or  carried  off  calves  or  sheep,  or 
even  children  were  plentiful  along  the  Bald 
Eagle  Mountains,  three-quarters  of  a  century 

*  See  appendix  A 


104  Tales  of  the 

ago.  As  time  went  on  they  became  generally 
disbelieved  or  confused  with  anecdotes  of  the 
black  bears. 

On  the  flats  and  table  lands  back  of  the 
Nippeno  Mountain  which  slopes  down  to  the 
river  where  Nippeno  Park  is  now  located,  the 
brown  bears  made  their  last  stand.  It 
seemed  to  be  their  natural  breeding  and 
feeding  ground,  for  no  matter  how  far  they 
wandered,  they  always  spent  part  of  every 
year  at  this  retreat.  For  this  reason  they 
were  exterminated  more  quickly  than  their 
black  relatives,  which  knew  enough  to  scat- 
ter themselves  and  stay  scattered  in  nearly 
every  county  in  the  State.  At  one  time  there 
were  thirty-five  well-constructed  bear  traps 
or  pens  on  the  plateaux  of  Nippeno  Moun- 
tain, and  some  of  these  must  have  caught 
several  victims  in  a  season. 

At  an  early  date,  probably  in  the  first 
decade  of  the  Nineteenth  Century  there  was 
a  settler's  cabin  situated  near  to  the  present 
site  of  the  boarding  house  at  the  Park.  The 
land  about  it  was  all  cleared,  but  later  aban- 
doned as  too  wet,  by  one  Reuben  Arm- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  105 

priester,  who  was  also  a  hunter  of  some  no- 
toriety. That  he  was  a  hunter  was  a  sign 
he  wasn't  very  successful  at  farming,  as  the 
prosperous  agriculturist  has  little  time  to 
stray  in  the  woods.  He  had  become  so  pro- 
ficient trapping  bears,  that  the  traders  from 
Harrisburg  came  to  his  home  every  Spring 
and  bid  against  one  another  for  the  brown 
bear  hides.  These  were  much  affected  as 
coats  by  the  drivers  of  the  passenger  stages 
and  freight  wagons  which  ran  across  the 
mountains  to  Pittsburg;  each  driver  must 
have  a  brown  bear  coat  or  a  bear  robe  and 
this  fashion  lasted  until  there  were  no  more 
brown  bears,  and  buffalo  coats  and  robes 
from  the  west  took  their  places. 

Philadelphia  zoologists  never  recognized 
the  existence  of  the  brown  bears  as  a  distinct 
species,  but  they  never  took  the  trouble  to 
see  them,  dismissing  them  in  their  brochures 
as  a  "colorphase"  of  the  black  bears.  Still  the 
men  of  science  being  satisfied,  the  rest  of  the 
public  including  future  generations  must  be, 
so  the  habits  and  peculiarities  of  these  inter- 
esting animals  have  been  lost  to  us. 


106  Tales  of  The 

Reuben  Armpriester  boasted  he  had  killed 
a  brown  bear  which  "hog-dressed"  weighed 
six  hundred  pounds.  This  is  more  than  likely 
as  Rhoads,  in  his  "Mammals  of  Pennsylvania 
and  New  Jersey,"  mentions  a  black  bear 
killed  by  the  famous  Clinton  County  pioneer, 
Seth  I.  Nelson,  which  "hog-dressed"  weighed 
four  hundred  and  eight  pounds.  As  years 
went  on  Armpriester  became  imbued  with  a 
single  thought  and  that  was  to  capture  brown 
bears.  During  his  most  successful  season  he 
caught  eight,  but  it  is  hard  to  see  how  it  paid 
him  to  knock  off  from  work  for  months  when 
the  price  of  hides  was  in  reality  very  low.  He 
raised  a  large  family  of  children,  who  were 
kept  in  order  by  his  industrious  wife.  She 
often  complained  bitterly  that  too  much  time 
was  wasted  by  her  lord  and  master  with  his 
bear  hunts  to  maintain  the  household  prop- 
erly. The  youngest  child  was  a  little  boy  of 
three  named  Simon,  and  the  next  to  the 
youngest  was  a  five-year-old  girl  named 
Phoebe.  This  little  girl  was  bright  and  pre- 
cocious for  her  age,  and  if  her  parents  had 
encouraged  her,  she  might  have  developed 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  107 

into  an  unusual  young  person.  But  with  the 
mother  it  was  all  work  and  complaints,  with 
the  father  it  was  the  eternal  story  of  bear 
hunting.  Phoebe  and  her  little  brother  were 
given  much  liberty  of  movement,  and  on 
warm  afternoons  wandered  up  the  sloping 
sides  of  the  big  mountain,  to  gather  berries 
or  acorns  or  chestnuts  as  the  season  afforded. 
They  always  came  home  at  supper  time  and 
the  mother  was  too  busy  to  think  of  snakes, 
so  they  had  their  way. 

One  bright  afternoon  in  October  the 
two  youngsters,  after  stopping  at  King 
Wi-daagh's  Spring  for  a  good  drink  of  the 
crystalline  water,  started  up  the  well-worn 
little  path  for  their  daily  ramble  in  the 
woods.  There  were  still  many  old  pines  and 
oaks  along  the  mountain,  some  of  them  were 
not  cut  down  until  1895  or  thereabouts,  and 
many  of  the  tall  trunks  were  covered  with 
woodbine,  now  scarlet  in  its  autumnal  glory. 
Reuben  was  away  on  a  bear  hunt ;  it  was  his 
first  that  season.  He  was  keen  to  be  at  his 
favorite  pastime,  as  his  wife  was  to  be  busy 
with  her  domestic  duties,  or  complaints. 


108  Tales  of  The 

About  six  o'clock  little  Simon  returned  alone. 
The  mother,  at  seeing  this,  flew  into  a  great 
state  of  excitement  and  demanded  the  where- 
abouts of  his  sister.  As  best  he  could  the 
little  fellow  stammered  out  that  a  great 
brown  bear,  bigger  than  any  that  his  father 
had  brought  home  the  last  winter,  had  come 
up  to  where  they  were  playing,  and  had  sat 
down  beside  them.  All  afternoon  they  had 
played  with  him,  and  when  it  came  time  to 
return  for  supper,  Phoebe  said  she  was  go- 
ing home  with  the  bear.  And  off  they  went 
together,  so  he  said.  The  mother  was  infu- 
riated. "You  little  fool",  she  screeched, 
"don't  you  know  that  bear  has  eaten  your 
sister,  that's  the  way  they  went  off  together." 
The  little  boy  insisted  that  Phoebe  hadn't 
been  eaten,  but  was  in  the  best  spirits  imagi- 
nable when  they  parted.  His  story  could  not 
be  shaken.  The  nearest  neighbors  lived 
across  the  river,  and  the  older  boys  went  in 
their  dug-outs  and  fetched  them  over.  They 
decided  that  Reuben  must  be  notified  at 
once;  if  the  little  girl  still  lived  it  would  be 
a  miracle,  at  any  rate  he  could  kill  the  bear 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  109 

that  had  devoured  his  child.  He  would  know 
the  haunts  of  the  big  bears  better  than  any- 
one else,  and  this  bold  brute  would  soon  "bite 
the  dust."  At  dawn  a  party  of  six  men  and 
boys  crossed  over  the  mountain  in  search  of 
Reuben.  They  carefully  observed  the  spot 
where  Simon  and  Phoebe  had  played  the 
afternoon  before  —  it  was  strange  they 
thought,  that  they  could  find  no  blood  nor 
particles  of  clothing.  It  was  sundown  before 
they  came  upon  the  unsuspecting  father. 
They  had  to  make  a  tour  of  all  his  traps,  some 
of  which  were  situated  three  miles  apart,  and 
three  miles  across  rough  mountains  is  no 
easy  task,  before  catching  up  with  him.  He 
was  dumbstruck,  but  incredulous  when  he 
heard  the  story  of  his  child's  disappearance. 
"That  little  boy's  been  romancing,  either  he 
doesn't  know  where  his  sister  is  or  that  bear 
ate  her,  there's  no  other  way",  he  concluded. 
When  told  of  the  size  of  the  bear  he  said 
he  could  not  believe  it  was  one  of  the  largest 
brutes.  "There  are  only  one  or  two  of  the 
real  old  fellows  left,  there's  one,  I  know,  but 
it  can't  be  him,  that  weighs  I'm  sure  close 


110  Tales  of  The 

to  seven  hundred  pounds.  I  tracked  him  all 
last  winter  for  Daniel  Eck  yonder  in  the 
Bastress  region,  he  was  the  biggest  and  bold- 
est one  I  ever  trailed,  but  he  always  eluded 
me.  After  eating  three  of  Farmer  Eek's 
heifers  and  thirteen  sheep,  he  had  the  nerve 
to  come  into  the  barn-yard  on  his  hind  feet 
when  Mammy  Eck  was  milking,  drove  her 
away,  and  drank  out  of  the  milk  pail.  I  can't 
believe  it's  him,  he  never  came  over  to  the 
river  mountain,  he  knew  where  he  was  safe". 
That  night,  in  the  solitude  of  the  hunter's 
shack  a  course  of  action  was  decided  upon. 
Armpriester  was  to  bring  his  two  bear  dogs 
home,  and  see  if  they  could  take  up  the 
scent.  The  weather  was  fine  and  chance 
might  favor  them.  If  they  lost  the  scent, 
he  would  visit  all  the  known  bear  dens  in 
the  mountains.  Formerly  all  of  these  held 
their  bruin  families,  but  hunters  like  Arm- 
priester, had  sorely  reduced  their  numbers. 
Some  of  the  biggest  caves  or  dens  had  not 
been  occupied  in  several  years- — it  was  "home 
to  let"  on  every  ridge.  A  quick  march  home 
was  made  the  next  morning.  The  dogs  were 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  111 

promptly  brought  to  the  place  that  had  been 
indicated  by  Baby  Simon,  but  after  sniffing 
about  for  half  an  hour  scampered  off  to- 
wards their  kennels.  That  was  a  sign  they 
were  baffied.  Armpriester  was  grief  - 
stricken;  rough  man  of  the  woods  that  he 
was.  he  broke  down  and  wept.  "It  will  be 
a  long  hunt;  even  if  Door  little  Phoebe  is  alive 
now,  she  won't  be  by  the  time  we  find  where 
that  bear  has  hidden  her.  He  will  play  with 
her  like  a  cat  does  with  a  mouse  and  then 
eat  her.  Oh,  my  poor  little  girl!"  He  was 
for  starting  on  the  hunt  at  once,  but  his 
friends  restrained  him  until  he  was  given 
some  dinner. 

About  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  ac- 
companied by  his  two  dogs,  and  his  two  old- 
est boys,  Lewis  and  Michael,  he  started  for 
the  brown  bear  country.  Six  or  seven  pits 
and  dens  were  visited  before  dark  that  day, 
but  all  were  tenantless  save  one,  and  out  of 
that  they  chased  a  small  black  dog-bear. 
Armpriester  was  so  angry  at  the  whole  race 
of  Ursus  that  he  shot  this  bear,  and  threw 
it  over  the  mountain  into  a  ravine.  They 


112  Tales  of  The 

camped  that  night  on  a  lofty  height  over- 
looking Rattling  Gap  where  their  sleep  was 
disturbed  by  the  nocturnal  dissensions  of 
panthers,  wolves  and  catamounts.  At  day- 
break they  broke  camp  and  resumed  the 
quest.  By  nightfall  they  had  inspected  a 
dozen  other  dens,  some  in  abandoned  quar- 
ries, others  in  the  steep,  and  almost  unscal- 
able sides  of  the  mountains.  In  one  of  these 
a  catamount  family  was  found,  and  the  liv- 
ing struggling  mass,  mother  and  all,  hurled 
over  the  precipice.  "You'll  not  keep  me 
awake",  said  the  frenzied  hunter,  as  he  saw 
the  fuzzy  brutes  strike  "rock  bottom."  The 
third  day's  search  was  also  fruitless.  The 
party  had  described  a  circle  in  the  mountains, 
had  closed  into  the  centre,  so  that  not  a 
cranny  escaped  unexplored.  "There's  only 
one  place  more",  said  Armpriester,  "and 
that's  too  near  home  for  any  brown  bear.  I 
never  heard  tell  of  one  being  seen  there  in 
all  the  fifteen  years  I've  hunted  the  brown 
devils".  "Let's  go  there  anyhow,  it  won't 
do  any  harm",  said  the  optimistic  sons.  "All 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  113 

right,  we'll  be  passing  there  tomorrow",  said 
the  father,  sadly. 

It  was  close  to  noon  when  they  came  upon 
the  cave.  It  was  in  the  side  of  a  pile  of  loose 
rocks  near  the  summit  on  the  south  slope  of 
Nippeno  Mountain.  The  opening  was  small, 
but  a  mass  of  great  flat  sandstones  made  a 
chamber,  say  twenty  by  ten.  It  was  a  pecu- 
liar formation,  and  no  one  but  a  skilled 
hunter  like  Reuben  Armpriester  could  have 
discovered  it.  Once  he  had  caught  a  paltry 
family  of  grey  foxes  in  it.  He  brained  them 
all,  it  made  him  so  angry  to  bother  with 
"small  game".  In  some  localities  in  this  de- 
generate day  if  you  ask  if  there  is  any  larga 
game  the  natives  reply,  "well,  yes,  we've 
foxes".  Reuben  lit  his  torch  and  went  in, 
dragging  his  rifle  after  him.  He  wore  a  de- 
jected look  when  he  came  out — "not  a  thing, 
but  the  skeletons  of  some  cursed  foxes  I 
killed  there  six  years  ago".  Would  they  havfc 
to  go  home  empty-handed?  The  three  men 
and  the  dogs  presented  an  unhappy  looking 
•quintet,  as  they  sat  with  hanging  heads  on 
the  flat  stones  outside  the  cavern.  The  faith- 


114  Tales  of  The 

ful  dogs  seemed  to  have  imbibed  their  mas- 
ter's dejection.  During  the  most  oppressive 
moment  one  of  the  dogs  began  to  sniff  the 
air  and  bark.  "A  bear,  a  bear",  shouted 
Reuben  triumphantly.  The  men  seized  their 
rifles,  and  followed  the  lead  of  the  dogs.  In 
the  midst  of  an  old  huckleberry  patch  they 
stopped  short  and  could  scarcely  believe  their 
eyes.  Was  it  a  daylight  phantasm  or  reality? 
Coming  towards  them,  astride  of  the  biggest 
bear  they  had  ever  seen  was  little  Phoebe, 
smiling  and  rosy!  The  bear  looked  as  con- 
tented as  the  child,  beaming  happiness  with 
his  great  brown  eyes.  "Oh,  pop,  pop",  she 
called  out,  "see  my  good  playmate,  Master 
Brown  Bear,  he's  the  best  friend  I've  got". 
Reuben  Armpriester  did  not  take  in  the 
humor  or  the  picturesqueness  of  the  situa- 
tion. All  he  was  thinking  about  was  the 
ultimate  safety  of  his  child.  He  felt  exactly 
as  if  he  had  found  her  playing  with  a  rattle- 
snake. Quick  as  a  flash  he  had  his  rifle  at 
his  shoulder,  and  was  sighting  it  on  the  cen- 
tre of  the  brown  bear's  broad  flat  skull. 
"Don't  shoot,  pop,  don't  shoot,  don't  kill  my 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  115 

bear",,  the  little  girl  screamed,  but  it  was 
too  late.  There  was  a  sickening  report,  and 
the  huge  brown  monster  fell  forward  on  his 
breast,  tumbling  little  Phoebe  off  Ms  back 
into  the  brittle  berry  bushes.  There  she  lay, 
unhurt  but  weeping  piteously.  The  bear  did 
not  die  the  first  shot,  but  tried  to  raise  him- 
self and  look  at  the  little  girl  with  his  ap- 
pealing brown  eyes.  A  second  bullet  sent 
him  to  sleep,  and  he  lay  vast  and  ponder- 
ous, a  titan  of  the  animal  kingdom.  Phoebe 
finally  got  up  and  came  over  to  where  the 
bear  lay,  and  stroked  his  dead  coat.  "Oh, 
why  did  you  do  it,  pop,  he  meant  no  harm, 
he  talked  to  me  just  like  you  do,  only  nicer". 
"Oh,  nonsense,  child'*,  said  Armpriester, 
•alarmed  at  her  remarks,  "'you'd  better  come 
home,  this  thing's  going  to  your  head."  "But 
lie  did  talk  to  me,  pop",  she  continued  saying. 
*'The  child's  getting  a  fever,  I'm  afraid",  the 
hunter  whispered  to  his  boys,  thoroughly 
alarming  them. 

Michael  carried  the  little  girl  home,  and 
put  her  to  bed.  All  were  overjoyed  to  see 
her  again,  but  predicted  a  long  ilmess  would 


116  Tales  of  The 

follow  her  adventure  in  the  wilderness.  Next 
morning  she  woke  bright  and  early,  without 
a  symptom  of  disorder,  although  she  com- 
plained that  "pop  acted  awful  mean  to  kill 
that  bear".  "He'd  have  eaten  you",  said 
the  mother  to  console  her.  "No  he  wouldn't, 
he  told  me  he  wouldn't  when  I  went  away 
with  him". 

That  night  the  giant  bear's  carcass  was 
hauled  in  to  the  Armpriester  home.  It  "hog- 
dressed"  just  six  hundred  pounds,  and  the 
hide,  an  exceptionally  fine  one  was  sold  to 
the  driver  of  a  "select*'  stage  for  fifty  dol- 
lars, a  record  price.  It  was  a  long  time  be- 
fore Phoebe  would  give  up  chiding  her  father 
for  killing  the  bear,  she  kept  on  insisting  that 
it  could  talk  just  like  a  person,  and  had  given 
her  presents  of  berries  and  roots,  the  like 
of  which  she  never  tasted  before.  Arm- 
priester and  his  wife  were  too  happy  to  have 
her  back  to  ever  quarrel  with  her  over  this 
strange  talk,  but  it  worried  them  consider- 
ably. When  they  would  listen  she  would  tell 
of  the  lovely  grotto  he  took  her  to,  walled 
with  red  rock  and  as  bright  as  day  inside. 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  117 

"I'd  say  that  was  a  spook  bear",  said  Mrs. 
Armpriester  aside,  one  day,  "if  it  wasn't  you 
killed  him  without  a  silver  bullet,  and  I  saw 
the  fifty  dollars  you  got  for  the  hide".  "It's 
beyond  me",  answered  Reuben  shaking  his 
frowsy  head.  Phoebe  stuck  to  her  story  even 
when  she  grew  up,  but  she  never  found  any- 
one who  believed  it,  she  maintained.  "Every 
generation's  worse,  why  my  grandchildren 
won't  even  believe  there  was  such  a  thing 
as  a  brown  bear  in  Pennsylvania,  It  isn't  in 
their  natural-histories,  their  teachers  laugh 
at  the  idea,  they  think  I'm  romancing.  But 
it's  truth,  the  unvarnished  truth  that  I  ran 
away  with  a  brown  bear  and  lived  in  his  cave 
a  week." 


V. 

OLD  PHILIPPE 
(Story  of  Big  Run  Mountain) 


EW  of  the  present  generation, 
or  the  generation  past,  were 
aware  that,  not  far  from  the 
creek,  at  the  foot  of  Big 
Run  Mountain,  stood  a  spa- 
cious log-tavern,  which  was 
burned  down  during  the 
first  decade  of  the  last  cen- 
tury. It  was  run,  for  a 
year,  about  1796,  by  old  Philippe  Anthony- 
son,  an  Alsacian,  who  later  became  famous 
as  the  proprietor  of  the  "Blockhauss"  in 
Tioga  County. 

Anthonyson  was  certainly  a  character.  He 
had  drifted  to  Paris  prior  to  the  French 
Revolution,  and  espoused  the  cause  of  the 
people  during  those  bloody  days.  He  had 
taken  a  fiendish  delight  in  butchering  aris- 
tocrats, until  his  wing  of  the  radical  party 
118 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  119 

fell  from  power,  and  he  had  to  escape  to  the 
seacoast  disguised  as  a  carter,  and  embark 
for  America.  In  Philadelphia  he  learned  the 
prosperous  trade  of  Neulaender,  making 
three  trips  to  his  native  Alsace  to  extoll  the 
riches  and  opportunities  of  Pennsylvania  to 
his  fellow-countrymen.  For  every  person 
whom  he  caused  to  emigrate,  and  the  total 
was  in  the  three  figures,  he  received  a  com- 
mission from  the  owners  of  a  line  of  vessels. 
The  sufferings  of  the  victims  who  found 
class-distinctions  and  hard  work  awaiting 
them  in  the  "promised  land",  brought  on  him 
such  execrations,  that  he  decided  to  retire 
to  the  interior.  He  accordingly  bought  out 
the  new  tavern-stand  on  Big  Run,  Lycoming 
County.  It  had  a  lucrative  trade  among 
travellers  and  hunters  crossing  the  Bald 
Eagle  Mountains  as  well  as  rivermen,  and 
he  was  well-liked  by  his  patrons. 

But  trouble  came  to  him,  and  he  had  to 
move  on  again,  this  time  to  the  Blockhouse 
Country,  where  he  remained  until  his  death 
twenty  years  later.  Despite  the  unpleasant 
cause  of  his  departure,  it  was  an  excellent 


120  Tales  of  The 

move,  as  he  made  the  Blockhouse  famous 
throughout  Pennsylvania  and  Southern  New 
York.  "Old  Philippe",  as  he  was  called,  and 
the  "Blockhauss"  were  one  and  the  same; 
travellers  went  out  of  their  roads  for  miles 
to  spend  a  night  under  his  roof.  He  was 
just  the  kind  of  person  to  keep  such  a  re- 
sort. Rough,  positive,  and  brutal,  he  allowed 
no  nonsense  or  swindling,  but  to  those  who 
treated  him  decently  he  was  kindly,  and  often 
a  friend  in  need. 

The  Blockhouse  was  built  about  1795  as  a 
refuge  from  the  possible  hostilities  of  In- 
dians, by  the  handful  of  white  settlers  who 
lived  within  a  radius  of  ten  miles  of  the  head- 
waters of  the  stream  then  called  Metimmue, 
or  Wolf  Run,  but  afterwards  known  as 
Blockhouse  Run. 

The  following  year,  John  Williamson,  a 
New  York  land  agent,  in  the  employ  of  an 
English  nobleman  who  owned  a  vast  tract 
of  land  in  New  York  State,  opened  a  rough 
wagon  road  through  the  wilderness,  in  order 
to  facilitate  emigrants  in  reaching  these  lands 
from  Philadelphia.  The  road  passed  the 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  121 

Blockhouse,  and  Williamson  bought  it,  added 
to  its  size,  and  opened  it  as  a  stopping-place 
for  the  emigrants  and  adventurers.  The 
trail  which  took  the  name  of  the  Blockhouse 
road  became  such  a  great  thoroughfare  that 
Williamson  cast  about  for  an  experienced 
inn-keeper  to  run  his  tavern.  He  heard  of 
Old  Philippe's  troubles  in  the  West  Branch 
Valley,  and  sent  for  him.  A  bargain  was 
struck,  which  turned  out  to  be  mutually  prof- 
itable. The  old  man  literally  coined  money, 
which  he  spent  trying  to  amuse  and  educate 
his  children.  Many  were  jealous  of  his  suc- 
cess ;  all  kinds  of  stories  were  told  to  his  dis- 
credit, but  they  were  traceable  to  the  unjust 
charges  brought  against  him  while  still  keep- 
ing Big  Run  Tavern. 

The  chief  glamor  of  the  Blockhouse  was 
the  excellent  table.  Many  a  tired  German 
traveller,  who  could  pay  the  price,  tasted 
there  his  first  elk  steak,  or  fried  trout,  or 
wild-pigeon  pot-pie.  The  smoke-house  was 
always  filled  with  elkmeat,  as  the  old  fel- 
low maintained  an  elk-lick  nearby.  He  had 
several  Indians,  whom  he  paid  in  cheap 


122  Tales  of  The 

whiskey,  to  do  the  killing,  and  they  helped 
the  rapid  extermination  of  Cervus  Canaden- 
sis  in  Tioga  County.  The  gables  of  the 
Blockhouse,  and  the  sheds,  were  adorned 
with  innumerable  elks'  antlers.  Sometimes 
emigrants  camped  for  days  about  this  resort. 
They  obtained  feed  for  their  stock  from  the 
old  man,  also  certain  supplies  and  liquors 
for  themselves.  It  was  a  genial  break  in  the 
monotonous  journey  through  the  dark  for- 
ests and  rough  roads.  They  delighted  to  find 
a  place  kept  by  one  whom  they  imagined  a 
German  like  themselves;  for  old  Philippe, 
being  an  Alsacian,  could  speak  German  flu- 
ently. 

But  to  return  to  the  story  of  his  uncere- 
monious departure  from  the  commodious 
tavern  in  the  shadow  of  Big  Run  Mountain. 
The  old  fellow  arrived  there  in  the  first 
month  of  1796,  and  was  given  a  rousing  wel- 
come by  the  mountaineers.  He  had  come  to 
supply  a  long-felt  want.  His  earliest  policy 
was  to  run  the  tavern  in  the  manner  of  a 
club,  by  making  desirable  patrons  feel  at 
home.  Many  of  them,  according  to  the  cus- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  123 

torn  of  the  day,  in  order  to  escape  the  dreary 
monotony  of  pulling  stumps  and  gazing  out 
at  pine  trees,  would  visit  the  tavern  for  a 
week  at  a  time,  drinking,  smoking,  eating, 
telling  hunting  and  Indian  stories  about  the 
fire,  and  sleeping  long  hours  at  a  stretch. 

In  March,  one  of  these  worthy  "club  mem- 
bers" had  a  nightmare,  and  in  an  abortive 
effort  to  cut  his  bedfellow's  throat,  cut  off 
the  tendon  of  one  of  his  feet,  crippling  him 
for  life.  This  started  a  story  that  much 
brawling  took  place,  and  wives  "carried  on" 
when  they  heard  their  husbands  intended 
going  there.  But  old  Philippe  tried  to  run 
an  orderly  place,  in  a  disorderly  locality  and 
generation.  The  resort  was  famed  for  the 
cooking,  an  old  Mingo  woman  called  Indian 
Mary  being  responsible  for  most  of  it.  Phil- 
ippe's three  daughters,  the  eldest  Vieva,  a 
girl  of  seventeen,  assisted  in  the  kitchen  and 
about  the  house.  The  old  man  was  wifeless ; 
rumor  said  he  formerly  had  one,  an  Italian 
woman,  but  that  he  had  deserted  her  in  the 
old  country.  Philippe  once  told  a  friend  that 
she  had  died  on  shipboard,  on  his  first  trip 


124  Tales  of  The 

to  America,  leaving  him  with  the  three  little 
girls. 

Vieva  was  a  buxom,  lively  type  of  girl, 
with  black  ringlets,  laughing  black  eyes 
with  streaks  of  green  in  them,  eyes  that 
were  always  in  good  humor,  and  a  full- 
lipped,  merry  mouth.  Though  totally  un- 
educated, she  possessed  natural  abilities, 
which  might  have  been  developed  had  she 
fallen  in  with  the  right  kind  of  men.  She 
was,  however,  rather  indifferent  to  the  male 
sex,  except  those  who  were  exceptionally 
good-looking.  There  was  a  hostler,  or  handy- 
man, about  the  premises,  one  Leopold,  or  as 
he  was  locally  called  "Lu-pold"  Nancarro,  an 
Alsacian  redemptioner.  He  was  not  a  bad 
looking  fellow,  by  any  means,  but  densely 
ignorant,  and  enamored  with  Vieva.  De- 
spite his  efforts  to  charm  her,  she  outwardly 
displayed  little  interest  in  him.  The  guests 
at  Big  Run  Tavern  were  not  all  backwoods- 
men and  itinerant  traders.  Occasionally 
men  of  quality,  such  as  Quaker  landowners 
from  Philadelphia,  Scotch-Irish  candidates, 
French  naturalists,  or  German  missionaries 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  125 

stopped  over  night.  Old  Philippe,  having 
lived  abroad,  knew  how  to  receive  these 
gentry;  republican  though  he  was,  he  pos- 
sessed the  inherent  peasant  servility.  When 
they  left,  he  abused  them  roundly;  he  hated 
"blooded  stock",  he  said. 

One  balmy  Spring  evening,  when  the  peep- 
ers and  the  tree  toads  were  heralding  the  com- 
ing Maytime,  while  the  transparent-winged 
bats  were  chasing  insects  and  the  air  was 
sweet  with  the  odor  of  violets  and  wild 
apple-blossoms,  a  horseman  stopped  in  front 
of  the  tavern.  This  was  nothing  un- 
usual, as  most  persons  going  a  distance 
travelled  that  way,  but  this  rider  and 
his  mount  were  so  richly  comparisoned,  that 
they  attracted  especial  notice.  The  rider,  who 
was  a  young  man,  by  his  looks  belonged  to  the 
landed  aristocracy,  except  for  his  lack  of 
the  customary  negro  servant.  Old  Philippe 
and  Lu-pold  ran  out  to  assist  him  in  dis- 
mounting from  his  mettlesome  thoroughbred 
stallion.  When  he  dismounted,  it  was  observed 
that  he  was  very  tall  and  handsome,  with 
clear-cut,  aquiline  features,  blue  eyes,  and 


126  Tales  of  The 

auburn  hair.  He  gave  his  name  and  address 
as  Wilmer  Norris,  "Relmont",  Philadelphia, 
clearly  he  did  belong  to  the  old  stock.  He 
acted  the  gentleman,  except  that  his  man- 
ners were  more  affable  and  democratic  than 
most  men  of  his  cloth.  He  made  friends 
easily,  talked  over  his  affairs  freely,  and 
seemed  especially  anxious  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  Vieva.  Apparently  the  dash- 
ing young  girl  was  impressed  by  his  good 
looks,  but  if  he  had  been  a  trifle  less  ap- 
proachable, she  might  have  liked  him  better. 
She  helped  wait  on  him  at  the  supper-table, 
during  which  meal  he  asked  her  many  ques- 
tions, paying  her  considerable  indirect  com- 
pliments. 

Later  in  the  evening  he  contrived  to  bring 
up  his  chair  close  to  the  settle  by  the  big 
open  fireplace,  where  she  sat  sewing.  He 
talked  in  undertones,  but  old  Philippe,  and 
Lu-pold,  who  were  also  in  the  room,  could 
not  fail  but  catch  from  the  drift  that  he  was 
very  much  smitten.  There  was  no  mistake 
about  Vieva's  beauty.  There  were  few  pret- 
tier girls  in  Philadelphia  or  in  Europe,  there 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  127 

was  a  distingue  air  about  her,  which  attract- 
ed instant  attention.  This  high-bred  air  had 
given  rise  to  the  report  that  she  was  not 
old  Philippe's  daughter,  but  the  child  of  a 
French  nobleman  and  a  seamstress,  whom 
he  had  adopted  for  a  stipend.  Her  features 
were  more  delicately  chiseled  than  the  old 
man's,  but  there  was  a  similarity  in  coloring, 
and  other  characteristics,  which  gave  the  lie 
to  this  pretty  fancy. 

Although  Vieva  encouraged  her  aristo- 
cratic admirer,  she  also  kept  him  at  a  dis- 
tance. This  is  a  fine  distinction  which 
women  understand,  but  which  many  men 
are  unable  to  fathom. 

Wilmer  Norris,  despite  his  ball-room 
bringing  up,  could  not  detect  the  veil  of  re- 
serve which  the  girl  drew  about  her,  but 
pressed  his  attentions,  until  the  old  innkeep- 
er growled  at  her  that  it  was  time  for  every- 
body to  go  to  bed.  The  young  stranger,  in 
deference  to  his  position,  was  given  use  of 
the  living  room  as  bed-chamber.  He  was 
assigned  to  a  roomy  couch,  covered  with  buf- 
falo robes  and  brown-bear  hides,  by  the 


128  Tales  of  The 

inglenook.  Old  Philippe,  Lu-pold,  and  Vieva, 
after  seeing  that  all  his  wants  were  gratified, 
filed  up  the  rickety  stairway,  holding  aloft 
tallow-dips  in  their  pewter  candlesticks.  The 
young  man  said  nothing  about  departing  on 
the  morrow,  so  it  was  inferred  he  would  re- 
main a  day  or  two.  He  had  given  out  that 
he  was  on  his  way  to  inspect  some  of  his 
father's  timberlands  further  up  the  West 
Branch  Valley ;  he  made  no  "mystery"  of  hia 
movements.  The  next  day  was  rainy,  he 
would  hardly  have  started  anyway. 

He  spent  as  much  time  as  possible  with 
Vieva,  who  was  not  averse  to  having  her  two 
younger  sisters  present  during  the  courting. 
They  lingered  around  the  fireside  that  night, 
until  she  yawned  and  expressed  a  desire  for 
bed.  Wilmer  Norris,  try  as  he  would, 
seemed  unable  to  be  with  her  alone.  On  tha 
following  morning  which  dawned  clear  he 
announced  that  he  would  leave  the  next  day. 
Had  Vieva  given  him  an  ounce  of  encour- 
agement, he  might  have  remained  a  month. 
On  his  last  evening,  he  was  more  anxious 
than  ever  to  spend  a  few  minutss  with  the 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  129 

beautiful  girl  when  others  were  not  present. 
She  tried,  though  perhaps  not  as  tactfully 
as  a  more  experienced  girl,  to  have  a  third 
party  present  every  moment.  Wilmer  was 
too  much  in  love  to  notice  that  while  his 
friendly  advances  were  welcome,  his  love 
was  not. 

When  ten  o'clock  was  struck  by  the  chimes 
of  the  tall  walnut  clock  from  Berks  County, 
Vieva,  rubbed  her  eyes,  yawned  for  the  twen- 
tieth time,  and  said  she  was  dead  tired,  she 
must  retire.  The  younger  girls  who  were 
dozing  with  their  heads  on  her  lap,  rose  up 
suddenly,  saying  that  bed  was  a  grand  idea. 
Lu-pold  had  left  the  room  half  an  hour 
earlier,  but  old  Philippe  still  sat  in  one  corner 
smoking  his  long  clay  pipe.  The  young  aris- 
tocrat begged  her  stay  up  just  a  few  minutes 
longer,  because  it  was  to  be  his  "last  night", 
but  she  was  obdurate.  She  lit  her  tallow- 
dip,  and  followed  by  the  younger  girls,  and 
the  old  man,  ascended  the  stairs. 

It  was  impossible  for  the  foolish  lover  to 
sleep  that  night.  He  did  not  even  undress, 
but  sat  by  the  fire,  drinking  deeply  from  a 


130  Tales  of  The 

brandy  jug  which  he  had  brought  in  his  sad- 
dle bag.  He  scorned  the  product  of  the  moun- 
tain stills  which  old  Philippe  doled  out.  He 
had  never  felt  so  unhappy  in  his  life.  Aris- 
tocratic belles  had  smiled  on  him,  but  now 
he  was  to  be  thwarted  by  a  little  backwoods 
damsel.  It  seemed  impossible  to  his  imperi- 
ous pride.  He  must  win  her;  he  would 
marry  her,  and  take  her  to  Philadelphia, 
come  what  may.  She  was  just  a  little  shy, 
or  hesitated  because  of  their  different  posi- 
tions in  life,  that  was  all,  he  reasoned.  The 
brandy  and  his  disappointment  made  his  head 
whirl;  he  decided  to  go  outside  for  a  stroll. 
There  was  a  fine  spring  a  few  hundred  yards 
above  the  tavern;  he  would  go  there  to 
quench  his  thirst  with  mountain  water.  He 
took  a  gourd  from  a  hook  on  the  wall,  un- 
chained the  heavy  oaken  door,  and  sallied 
forth.  A  wolfish  watch  dog  barked  and 
ramped  about  viciously;  it  seemed  as  if  he 
must  rouse  the  entire  household,  through  his 
innocent  stroll.  The  stars  were  out;  from 
its  reflection  in  the  sky,  the  new  moon  had 
come  and  gone.  An  early  cricket  was  trying 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  131 

to  chirp  louder  than  the  peepers,  to  raise  his 
voice  above  the  musical  crooning  of  the  top- 
most twigs  of  the  giant  buck-topped  white 
pine  which  surrounded  old  Philippe's  clear- 
ings. 

He  was  walking  towards  the  spring  when 
he  heard  footsteps,  and  sticks  crackling 
among  the  maple  underbrush  beneath  the 
pines.  Then  he  heard  a  woman's  voice,  low 
and  musical  in  tone,  it  was  Vieva's,  none 
other.  "Is  that  you,  is  that  you  Lu-pold?" 
Wilmer  Norris  stopped  short,  his  heart 
thumping  against  his  ribs,  the  red-blood 
surging  to  his  cheeks,  his  soul  aflame  with 
wounded  pride.  There  is  nothing  so  galling 
to  a  gentleman  as  to  have  the  woman  he 
admires  prefer  a  low-bred  fellow.  He 
thought  of  himself,  clean-cut,  intelligent,  sen- 
sitive, and  then  of  the  frowsled-headed,  un- 
shaven, undersized  redemptioner  whom  she 
was  meeting  clandestinely  in  the  forest.  It 
was  the  most  humiliating  event  of  his  life. 
It  was  his  punishment  for  loving  outside  his 
class.  People  are  different,  class  distinctions 


132  Tales  of  The 

do  exist;  he  who  will  defy  them  is  a  block- 
head of  the  first  order. 

He  hoped  he  could  slide  back  to  the  tavern 
without  being  observed,  but  footsteps  coming 
up  behind  him,  told  him  as  plainly  as  words, 
that  Lu-pold  would  soon  overtake  him. 
Rather  than  face  his  ignoble  rival,  he  moved 
forward  along  the  path.  In  another  dozen 
paces  he  came  face  to  face  with  Vieva.  A 
ray  of  moonlight  was  shining  on  her  cheeks 
through  an  opening  in  the  pine-boughs.  He 
noted  that  she  was  whiter  than  the  ghastly 
light,  when  she  saw  who  was  approaching, 
that  her  mean  deception  was  discovered. 
Wilmer  made  no  effort  to  speak,  and  she  re- 
mained silent,  until  he  was  past.  Then  he 
heard  her  calling  softly  "Lu-pold,  Lu-pold, 
what  has  become  of  you?" 

The  young  man  fully  realized  the  awful 
truth,  Vieva  loved  the  redemptioner,  he  could 
have  been  nothing  in  her  eyes.  He  ploughed 
along  the  forest  pathway,  sometimes  stum- 
bling and  almost  falling  over  stones  and  roots, 
not  caring  if  he  did.  He  went  on  his  way 
for  several  miles,  until  he  came  to  a  wind- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  133 

fall,  where  a  dozen  uprooted  pines  formed 
a  semi-circle  of  a  tangled  mass  of  fibres, 
rocks,  and  earth,  like  a  corral.  He  sought 
out  a  secluded  spot  in  this  tangle,  where  he 
sat  down.  In  another  minute  his  face  was 
wet  with  hot  tears.  He  was  paying  the  pen- 
alty of  unwise  love,  reaping  the  harvest  of 
tares  that  comes  to  him  who  dares  proclaim 
there  is  no  caste.  He  fumbled  in  his  belt, 
which  was  under  his  whipcord  coat,  drawing 
out  a  heavy  pistol.  He  held  it  up  to  the 
moonlight,  to  see  if  it  was  properly  pruned. 
Then  he  put  the  cool  muzzle  against  the  roof 
of  his  mouth,  and  pulled  the  trigger.  There 
was  a  muffled,  undefinable  report,  a  lot  of 
smoke  and  fumes,  and  Wilmer  Norris  re- 
leased his  crushed  and  broken  spirit  to  the 
infinite. 

When  old  Philippe,  next  morning,  came 
downstairs,  his  distinguished  guest  was  no- 
where to  be  found.  It  was  thought  at  first 
that  he  had  gone  for  an  early  morning  walk. 
When  he  did  not  return  at  nine  o'clock,  a 
search  was  instituted,  but  no  trace  found. 
Vieva  and  Lu-pold  had  seen  him,  and  heard 


134  Tales  of  The 

the  dull  pistol  shot  in  the  wilderness,  but 
they  feared  to  tell,  lest  they  incriminate 
themselves. 

The  story  of  the  young  man's  disappear- 
ance spread  like  wildfire;  of  course  old 
Philippe  was  charged  with  having  murdered 
him  for  his  money.  It  was  in  vain  that  he 
pointed  to  the  fact  that  his  money-pouch, 
containing  nearly  five-hundred  dollars  in  gold 
was  found  hanging  over  the  back  of  the  settle. 

The  Philadelphia  relatives  missed  the  youth 
in  due  course  of  time,  and  representatives  of 
the  agonized  parents  visited  the  scene.  They 
went  away  completely  mystified.  In  the  early 
fall,  some  hunters  chased  a  wolverine  into 
the  jungle  of  roots  in  the  windfall.  There 
they  came  upon  the  shrunken,  twisted  body 
of  a  young  man,  sitting  upright,  with  a  bul- 
let hole  in  the  top  of  the  skull.  A  screech- 
owl  had  a  half  completed  nest  in  his  matted 
auburn  hair.  On  the  moss  nearby  laid  a 
big  pistol.  They  picked  up  the  weapon,  and 
brought  it  back  to  show  to  old  Philippe.  That 
was  the  worst  thing  they  could  have  done  as 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  135 

it  started  the  story  that  no  firearm  was 
found  near  him. 

Norris's  parents  were  notified,  and  they 
directed  that  the  remains  be  shipped  to  Phil- 
adelphia, for  interment  in  the  churchyard 
of  Gloria  Dei.  They  threatened  to  have  the 
old  innkeeper  arrested,  as  his  murderer,  but 
as  no  motive  could  be  shown,  the  matter  was 
dropped  after  a  time.  But  the  tragedy  killed 
the  old  man's  business,  and  he  was  glad  when 
the  invitation  came  to  run  the  hotel  in  the 
remote  Blockhouse  Country.  He  went  there 
with  a  tarnished  reputation,  which  could  not 
be  shaken  off  in  a  life-time  of  square-dealing. 
His  slightest  faults  were  exaggerated,  his 
efforts  to  prevent  impositions  looked  upon  as 
evidences  of  overbearing  and  brutal  tenden- 
cies. But  he  made  the  name  of  the  Block- 
house Country  famous,  he  furnished  cheer  to 
thousands  of  sad-hearted  pilgrims. 

His  children,  despite  his  efforts  to  educate 
them,  scorned  everything  done  for  them, 
marrying  more  or  less  worthless  fellows.  As 
for  Vieva,  she  became  the  wife  of  Leopold 
Nancarro  within  a  couple  of  months  after 
young  Norris's  disappearance.  It  was  not 


Tales  of  The  Bald  Eagle  Mountains 


a  happy  union,  as  the  neighbors  shunned 
them,  and  after  the  old  man  had  gone  to  keep 
the  Blockhouse,  whispered  about  that  the 
couple  had  killed  the  youthful  Philadelphian 
in  order  to  get  a  "dowry."  All  was  storm 
for  old  Philippe  and  his  family;  it  was  like 
a  retribution  falling  on  them  for  his  per- 
nicious activity  in  the  bloody  days  of  the 
Guillotine. 


VII. 

KING    WI-DAAGH'S    SPELL 
(Story  of  Antes  Fort  Mountain) 


T  was  the  unvarying  custom, 
and  perhaps  the  chief  pe- 
culiarity of  King  Wi-daagh, 
the  last  ruler  of  the  Susque- 
hanah  Indians,  that  any  of 
his  subjects  who  happened 
to  lay  eyes  on  him,  must  re- 
turn and  see  him  again  one 
year  from  the  date.  This 
he  imagined  instilled  a  proper  respect  for  his 
exalted  station,  especially  when  the  person 
who  had  looked  at  him  would  have  to  travel 
two  hundred  miles  through  forests  drifted 
with  snow  to  repeat  the  performance.  If  he 
but  knew  it,  his  subjects  came  to  "hate  the 
sight  of  him"  for  this  very  reason.  But  he 
had  other  faults.  As  a  financier  he  was  a 
failure,  even  for  an  Indian.  His  bargain 
with  the  Proprietary  Government  in  Sep- 
tember, 1700,  a  century  after  his  great  an- 

107 


138  Tales  of  The 

cestor  Pinsisseway's  military  triumphs,  when 
he  deeded  the  fertile  Otzinachson  Valley  to 
the  Penn  family  for  a  few  trinkets  and  a  bale 
of  English  goods,  will  stand  out  as  the  most 
one-sided  land  deal  in  history. 

King  Wi-daagh  was  very  susceptible  to 
flattery,  a  few  grandiose  compliments  deliv- 
ered to  him  by  persons  of  the  proper  rank 
and  he  would  give  away  anything.  These 
were  probably  used  by  Penn's  emissaries  and 
if  they  had  carried  the  farce  much  further  he 
might  have  given  them  his  birthright  and 
handed  back  the  trinkets  and  the  bundle  of 
goods.  Though  he  ever  regretted  the  sale, 
he  kept  it  mostly  to  himself,  which  is  to  his 
credit.  But  to  the  day  of  his  death  he  was 
pompous  and  overbearing  to  his  kind,  exag- 
gerating trifles  and  glossing  over  the  really 
important  events  in  life.  As  long  as  his  fol- 
lowers came  back  the  following  year  after 
having  seen  him,  he  was  satisfied.  To  put 
people  to  trouble  seemed  to  be  his  chief  de- 
light. He  was  letting  some  splendid  energy 
go  to  waste. 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  139 

Wi-daagh's  favorite  walk  was  from  his 
"palace",  which  consisted  of  a  many  roomed 
cavern  near  the  source  of  Antes  Creek,  along 
the  stream,  and  thence  westward  to  a  small 
spring,  where  in  his  youth  he  had  met  clan- 
destinely an  Indian  maid  of  inferior  birth. 
Along  the  creek  was  the  favorite  pathway 
for  Indians  travelling  north  or  south,  and  he 
invariably  met  troops  of  victims  on  every 
stroll.  Much  as  they  originally  revered  this 
august  symbol  of  royalty,  they  hated  the  idea 
of  having  to  come  back  a  year  from  the  date 
of  their  chance  meetings  with  him.  To  each 
Indian  who  met  him  he  handed  a  piece  of 
shell,  curiously  carved,  and  when  a  year  later 
the  bearer  returned,  it  was  broken  in  half 
by  the  King's  chamberlain,  as  a  sort  of  re- 
ceipt to  prove  that  the  Indian  had  fulfilled 
his  obligation.  As  a  result  of  this  oppressive 
custom,  the  meadows  in  the  vicinity  of  Wi- 
daagh's  abode,  afterwards  the  scene  of  his 
unequal  bargain  with  the  Quakers,  were  al- 
ways thronged  with  Indians.  Oftentimes 
he  would  keep  them  waiting  for  days  before 
collecting  their  bits  of  wampum,  which  he 


140  Tales  of  The 

did  personally.  He  claimed  he  had  a  great 
memory  for  faces,  and  would  sometimes  ac- 
cuse a  redman  of  being  a  substitute  sent  by 
the  person  who  had  actually  seen  him  the 
year  before.  He  would  talk  loud  and  threat- 
en, but  unless  his  mood  changed  before  sun- 
set, as  it  usually  did,  it  meant  death  to  the 
alleged  substitute.  The  Indians,  to  avoid 
these  unpleasant  complications,  would  have 
avoided  the  trail  along  the  creek,  that  their 
monarch  frequented,  had  it  not  been  that  for- 
seeing  this  very  thing,  he  forbid  his  sub- 
jects to  pass  north  or  south  any  other  way. 
Some  did  go  many  miles  out  of  their  course 
to  keep  clear  of  him,  but  spies  reported  them, 
and  in  some  cases  they  fell  into  the  hands  of 
hostile  tribes,  whose  penalties  were  more  se- 
vere than  Wi-daagh's.  The  only  comfortable 
way  to  avoid  their  king  was  to  stay  at  home, 
and  Indians  who  had  to  travel  east  and  west 
were  envied,  but  some  of  these  who  were 
unlucky  enough  to  have  crossed  the  Susque- 
hanna,  and  met  the  King  at  the  spring,  were 
forced  to  return  like  the  hapless  travellers  on 
the  trailway  of  Antes  Creek. 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  141 

As  he  grew  older  he  was  mortified  by  the 
knowledge  that  most  of  his  subjects  acknowl- 
edged the  Penn  family,  and  not  himself  as 
the  real  rulers  of  the  realm.  He  protested 
that  he  merely  thought  he  was  selling  the 
Englishmen  right  of  way  through  the  Sus- 
quehanna  Valley,  he  did  not  expect  them  to 
attempt  to  be  his  overlords.  That  was  his 
feeble  defense  to  go  down  the  ages  against 
the  paltry  sum  given  him  for  his  property. 
He  was  humiliated  when  one  year  his  cham- 
berlain reported  to  him  that  four  hundred  In- 
dians whom  he  had  met  on  his  walks  had 
failed  to  return  to  pay  their  respects  at  the 
expiration  of  the  year.  The  official  gave  the 
King  a  certain  number  of  shells  each  day  he 
went  walking,  and  in  that  way  kept  track  of 
the  size  of  the  returning  parties.  A  party 
of  fifty  innocent  Juniata  Indians  who  were 
found  camping  along  the  mountains  at  the 
south  side  of  Nippenose  Valley  were  seized 
and  accused  of  being  some  of  the  renegades. 
Despite  their  protests  that  they  had  never 
been  in  that  part  of  the  country,  all  were 
sentenced  to  be  burned  at  the  stake.  Had 


142  Tales  of  The 

it  not  been  that  a  delegation  from  the  Pro- 
prietary Government  happened  along  oppor- 
tunely, this  cruel  sentence  would  have  been 
carried  out.  One  of  the  Quakers  seeing  the 
captives  lying  about  in  the  hot  sun  in  the 
meadow,  bound  hand  and  foot,  learned  their 
story  from  an  interpreter  and  intimated  to 
King  Wi-daagh  to  abrogate  the  punishment. 
That  night,  while  the  Quakers  slept,  an  ear 
was  cut  from  each  of  the  fifty  prisoners,  their 
goods  confiscated,  and  they  were  turned 
loose.  Even  this  sentence  seemed  shocking 
to  the  Quakers  but  it  was  too  late  for  further 
protests.  But  the  backbone  of  Wi-daagh's 
rule  was  crushed,  he  lived  the  balance  of  his 
Hfe  a  broken-hearted  man.  Even  before  his 
death,  his  sons  and  sons-in-law  were  quarrel- 
ing over  the  remnants  of  his  domain  like  buz- 
zards struggling  over  a  dying  horse.  Per- 
haps if  he  had  not  estranged  his  subjects  by 
his  silly  idea  of  making  those  who  saw  him 
return  in  a  year,  he  might  have  rallied  them 
around  him  and  forcibly  broken  his  con- 
tract with  the  Penns.  Only  a  handful  of  In- 
dians, and  mostly  from  his  immediate  house- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  143 

hold  attended  his  funeral  exercises.  No  doubt 
the  bulk  of  his  subjects  feared  they  might  be 
exacted  to  come  back  the  next  year  and  call 
on  his  corpse.  Attired  in  full  warrior's  re- 
galia and  with  face  painted,  he  was  buried 
where  the  Fish-house  now  stands  on  the  Loch- 
abar  estate.  How  the  later  owners  of  this 
magnificent  property  came  to  erect  this  little 
pagoda  above  the  remains  of  the  fallen  chief- 
tain, is  unknowable  and  belongs  properly  to 
the  subject  of  divination.  If  only  the  weight 
of  the  Fish-house  could  have  weighed  down 
the  ghost,  then  the  best  interests  of  divine 
justice  would  have  been  conserved. 

King  Wi-daagh's  ghost  was  as  unhappy  as 
the  living  tenement  had  been.  He  had  not 
been  in  his  grave  a  week  before  he  acquired 
the  habit  of  taking  midnight  strolls  through 
the  Gap  to  the  small  spring  at  the  foot  of  the 
upper  mountain.  Few  Indians  travelled  at 
night,  as  lights  were  uncertain  and  expensive, 
so  there  was  little  to  relieve  his  churlish  lone- 
liness. But  he  was  occasionally  seen  by  red- 
men  from  distant  points,  who  were  unlucky 
enough  to  build  their  campfires  along  the 


144  Tales  of  The 

path.  When  he  loomed  up  before  them,  from 
back  of  the  blaze,  he  would  hold  out  his  hand 
aa  if  trying  to  give  something  to  the  campers. 
Obviously  a  spirit  could  not  do  this,  unless  it 
be  the  double  of  a  living  person,  and  he  would 
sink  back  into  the  gloom  and  vanish.  For 
some  odd  reason,  those  who  saw  him  always 
found  themselves  back  in  Antes  Gap  a  year 
later,  no  matter  if  they  had  left  there  after 
their  first  visit  vowing  never  to  return.  They 
always  met  the  regal  ghost  on  their  second 
visit,  and  he  would  flit  about  them  like  a  hazy 
rainbow  before  he  dwindled  out  of  sight. 
After  the  second  visit  the  travellers  did  not 
find  it  necessary  to  return. 

When  the  Indians  were  driven  out  of  their 
beloved  valleys  of  Central  Pennsylvania,  they 
took  especial  care  not  to  warn  their  white 
supplanters  of  King  Wi-daagh's  ghost  and 
his  propensity  to  make  those  who  saw  him 
pay  a  return  visit.  They  would  have  a  laugh 
on  their  haughty  conquerors  if  a  ghost  with 
far  less  substance  than  a  jelly-fish  compelled 
them  to  do  homage  in  this  manner.  It  would 
be  the  triumph  of  Indian  spirit  over  Anglo- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  145 

Saxon  matter.  Many  a  self-important  Scotch- 
Irishman,  through  a  chance  meeting  with  the 
spook,  was  compelled  to  tramp  back  from  the 
Chillasquaque,  the  Mahantango,  the  Codorua 
or  the  Swatara.  Why  they  came,  they  could 
not  understand.  As  the  anniversary  ap- 
proached they  "felt  queer  in  the  head",  as 
they  phrased  it,  and  an  unaccountable  im- 
pulse started  them  in  the  direction  of  Antes 
Gap.  They  always  felt  easier  after  their  sec- 
ond meeting  with  the  ghost,  but  the  trips 
usually  wound  up  by  a  long  siege  of  inso- 
briety, and  plenty  of  curses  heaped  on  the 
offending  apparition. 

In  a  later  day,  after  a  hotel  had  been  built 
at  the  northerly  entrance  to  the  Gap,  travel- 
lers and  farmers  would  come  into  the  cozy 
barroom  nights  with  hair  standing  on  end, 
and  eyes  bloodshot  and  dilated,  order  a  drink 
of  whisky,  look  about  to  judge  the  crowd, 
and  say,  "I  saw  an  Indian,  all  gotten  up  in 
war  paint  in  the  Gap;  I  was  scared  out  of 
a  year's  growth  when  lie  tried  to  hand  me 
something."  At  first  the  landlord  attributed 
these  Indian  stories  to  the  alcoholic  proper- 


146  Tales  of  The 

ties  of  Nippenose  Valley  cider,  or  Rauch- 
town  applejack,  but  as  each  frightened  guest 
told  a  similar  story,  he  concluded  there  must 
be  "something  back  of  it." 

He  also  noticed  that  about  a  year  after  the 
first  fright,  the  same  men  would  turn  up  in 
the  bar-room,  considerably  cooled  down,  but 
saying  that  they  had  just  come  from  a  sec- 
ond experience  with  the  Indian,  and  this  time 
they  were  sure  it  was  a  ghost.  It  helped 
the  trade  in  the  bar,  and  as  time  went  on, 
the  genial  landlord  "saw  through  it  all,"  and 
rumor  had  it  he  too  had  met  King  Wi-daagh. 
But  the  wives  of  the  solid  citizens  who  met 
him  never  became  convinced.  When  they 
heard  the  story  they  laid  it  to  too  much  good 
cheer  at  Jersey  Shore,  or  at  the  cozy  hos- 
tlery  in  the  gap.  The  ghost  never  appeared 
when  two  persons  were  together,  or  to  folk 
in  carriages  or  wagons.  He  reserved  himself 
for  lone  pedestrians.  Wi-daagh  in  life  had 
a  similar  predillection.  If  he  came  upon  one 
of  his  subjects  alone,  the  wretched  sav- 
age, awed  by  the  presence  of  supreme  high- 
ness often  prostrated  himself  on  his  face. 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  147 

When  a  crowd  were  present,  more  reserve 
was  displayed. 

It  happened  that  out  in  the  summit  coun- 
try east  of  Loganton,  there  lived  a  bright 
young  fellow  named  Lot  Clingerman.  He  had 
received  a  good  common  school  education,  and 
had  once  cherished  an  ambition  to  teach.  Hard 
work  on  his  father's  farm  and  some  inci- 
dental prop  timber  and  paper-wood  opera- 
tions had  blocked  his  hopes  of  going  to  "Nor- 
mal," and  he  secretly  nursed  a  bitter  dis- 
appointment. He  liked  to  talk  with  persons 
who  had  been  away  from  Sugar  Valley  and 
had  come  home  professing  a  contempt  for 
their  own  Dutch  blood.  "You've  got  to  get 
away  from  the  Dutch  if  you  want  to  amount 
to  anything",  was  their  very  silly  refrain. 
Lot  began  to  feel  that  if  he  "got  away  from 
the  Dutch"  he  would  become  a  great  man. 
It  was  his  Dutch  associations,  and  not  his 
lack  of  education  that  had  prevented  his  suc- 
cess thus  far.  He  professed  a  dislike  for 
everything  savoring  of  Dutch.  He  criticized 
his  aged  father  to  his  face  because  he  spoke 
with  a  Dutch  accent,  yet  Lot  talked  as  bro- 


148  Tales  of  The 

kenly  as  his  parent,  if  he  had  only  known  it. 
"The  Dutch  aint  progressive'*,  was  a  jewel 
of  wisdom  he  interjected  into  every  conver- 
sation. "When  I  get  away  from  these  Dutch 
you'll  see  some  hustling",  was  another  of  his 
aphorisms. 

In  short,  all  the  failures  and  imperfec- 
tions of  his  family  were  blamed  on  the  Dutch 
blood;  to  hear  him  talk  one  would  have 
thought  he  came  from  a  different  race.  The 
unfrocked  priest  is  not  the  worst  apostate, 
the  Pennsylvania  German  who  is  ashamed  of 
his  race,  is  the  meanest  renegade  of  all. 

Lot  had  met  a  pretty  girl  at  Pine  camp- 
meeting  who  lived  along  Antes  Fort  moun- 
tain. She  professed  to  be  of  Yankee  origin, 
and  this  made  her  doubly  desirable  in  his 
eyes.  He  must  have  had  some  pluck,  for  he 
proposed  marriage  to  her  on  the  strength  of 
a  job  he  imagined  he'd  get.  The  girl  liked 
his  looks,  for  he  was  a  fine  big  specimen  of 
manhood,  but  said  she  wouldn't  take  him  until 
he  had  the  job.  In  his  heart  Lot  said  "those 
Yankees,  aint  they  the  slick  articles."  He  got 
into  correspondence  with  an  old  friend  who 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  149 

worked  in  a  mine  office  at  Butte,  Montana, 
a  fellow  who  had  left  Carroll  four  years  pre- 
viously. He  promised  Lot  to  place  him,  event- 
ually finding  him  a  situation  in  the  same  of- 
fice. The  young  mountaineer  was  beside  him- 
self with  joy.  He  borrowed  money  from  his 
father  to  make  the  trip,  and  started  away  in 
high  glee.  It  was  harvest  time  and  all  the 
horses  were  busy;  he  was  too  close  to  hire  a 
rig,  so  he  walked  over  the  summits,  through 
the  Gottschall  Hollow  to  Rauchtown,  and 
from  there  across  the  broad  valley  to  Antes 
Gap.  He  intended  taking  the  train  at  Antes 
Fort,  but  would  stop  first  and  say  au  revoir 
to  his  sweetheart. 

It  was  a  sultry  midsummer  night,  almost 
full  moon,  when  he  reached  the  smooth  mac- 
adam road  leading  through  the  Gap.  The 
katydids  and  crickets  were  chorusing  loudly. 
His  big  suit-case  which  looked  heavier  than 
it  really  was  swung  from  a  strap  across  his 
shoulders.  To  show  he  was  "citified"  he  wore 
a  brown  derby  with  a  ridiculously  narrow 
brim,  such  as  no  city  man  ever  owned,  and 
kept  it  jammed  on  his  head  though  he  per- 


150  Tales  of  The 


spired  freely.  Ke  crossed  the  small  suspen- 
sion foot-bridge  which  spans  the  creek  near 
a  group  of  summer  cottages,  and  started  out 
the  forest  path  which  led  in  the  direction  of 
his  sweetheart's  rather  remote  residence.  As 
he  neared  the  little  spring,  he  saw  a  tall  fig- 
ure emerge  from  behind  a  white  oak  of  stu- 
pendous proportions,  it  is  called  "the  Indian 
oak"  by  the  way,  and  walk  towards  him  with 
a  brisk  step.  "Say,  he  walks  like  a  New 
York  banker",  thought  the  young  "know-it- 
all."  When  the  figure  drew  near,  there  was 
a  filminess,  and  an  instability  which  made 
him  feel  that  New  York  bankers  must  be 
made  of  very  frail  stuff.  He  was  further 
surprised  when  the  stranger  held  out  his 
hand,  as  if  to  give  him  something,  and  he 
noticed  the  hands  quiver  and  melt  into  vapory 
smoke  at  the  finger  tips.  He  would  have 
grasped  the  hand  had  not  the  spectre  van- 
ished into  thin  air.  He  supposed  he  was 
overtired  from  the  long  walk;  he  had  heard 
of  folks  having  hallucinations  under  such  con- 
ditions, and  decided  to  say  nothing  of  his  ad- 
venture to  his  sweetheart.  It  was  to  be  their 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  151 

parting  night;  he  had  only  seen  her  thrice 
before,  and  then  it  was  at  "Camp"  in  a  crowd, 
and  he  wanted  to  make  a  favorable  impres- 
sion. The  evening  passed  off  better  than  he 
had  expected ;  he  knew  he  was  a  "winner,"  to 
use  his  own  language,  but  this  was  the  hand- 
iest work  he  had  attempted.  The  girl  agreed 
that  after  he  was  settled  at  Butte  if  he  would 
send  for  her  she  would  come  out  and 
marry  him,  if  he  paid  her  railroad  fare. 

Lot  Clingerman  did  not  see  the  Indian 
King's  ghost  again  that  night,  but  he  reached 
Antes  Fort  station  in  time  to  catch  the  west 
bound  morning  train,  which  connected  at 
Lock  Haven  for  Tyrone  and  Pittsburg.  He 
got  along  very  well  in  Butte,  and  he  had  been 
there  nearly  a  year  before  he  realized  it.  He 
saw  many  girls  out  there  whom  he  liked  bet- 
ter than  the  one  he  had  left  on  Antes  Fort 
mountain.  He  was  growing  less  and  less 
anxious  to  send  for  her.  What  he  wrote 
her  is  not  disclosed,  but  one  of  his  letters 
to  his  father  ran  something  like  this :  "Dear 
pop:  Say,  I  do  like  it  out  here  more  every 
day.  Say,  I  am  getting  along  just  grand. 


152  Tales  of  The 

Say,  they  put  it  all  over  the  Dutch  out  here. 
These  people  know  how  to  hustle.  Say,  I  will 
be  out  here  one  year  today  a  week,  but  I  guess 
it  will  be  another  year  or  two  before  I  can 
spare  the  time  to  come  east.  Give  my  best 
love  to  mom  and  all  the  rest.  Yours,  Lot." 
He  went  out  of  his  boarding  house  to  drop 
the  letter  in  the  box.  It  was  about  ten  in  the 
evening.  On  his  way  back  an  uncontrollable 
desire  seized  him  to  go  east.  He  had  just 
posted  a  letter  saying  he  wouldn't  do  so  for 
a  year  or  two,  and  now  he  was  filled  with  the 
desire  to  start  at  once.  He  wasn't  homesick, 
not  he,  there  wasn't  an  ounce  of  sentiment 
in  his  body.  He  was  as  stolid  as  quartz.  He 
could  not  check  himself  from  continuing  his 
walk  to  the  railroad  station  where  he  found 
that  a  through  train  for  St.  Paul  and  Chicago 
would  pass  through  town  at  1 :15  that  morn- 
ing. He  found  himself  walking  briskly  to 
his  boarding  house,  where  he  packed  his  be- 
longings, and  scribbled  a  note  to  the  general 
manager  of  his  office,  saying  that  he  had  been 
called  east  on  urgent  business,  but  would  re- 
turn as  soon  as  possible.  He  paid  his  board 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  153 

bill,  and  asked  the  landlady's  son  who  was 
a  chum  of  his,  to  deliver  the  note  for  him  in 
the  morning.  He  got  to  the  station  before 
midnight,  but  the  wait  seemed  of  no  moment, 
he  was  BO  determined  to  go.  All  the  way  to 
the  east  he  was  in  a  state  of  dazed  exulta- 
tion. He  did  not  know  why  he  was  bound 
east,  but  he  was  glad  to  be  going  there.  It 
was  almost  dark  when  he  got  off  the  east- 
bound  train,  "number  sixty-eight,"  at  Antes 
Fort.  He  realized  that  he  was  carrying  the 
same  suitcase,  it  was  considerably  heavier 
than  when  he  went  away;  but  on  his  head 
was  a  new  and  more  up-to-date  derby.  Carry- 
ing the  heavy  case  he  started  out  the  road 
leading  to  Antes  Gap.  He  passed  the  bright- 
ly lighted  hotel ;  it  was  a  temptation  to  watch 
the  jolly  crowd  through  the  bar-room  win- 
dows. But  he  was  east  on  "urgent  business" 
and  could  not  tarry.  He  came  to  the  suspen- 
sion bridge,  and  crossed  it,  starting  out  the 
forest  path,  just  as  he  had  one  year  ago  that 
night.  He  could  not  reason  with  himself  why 
he  was  doing  this ;  all  he  knew  was  he  must. 
He  saw  the  "Indian  oak"  rising  like  a  sable 


lot  Tales  of  The 

cloak  against  the  reflected  lights  of  Lock 
Haven.  From  behind  it  emerged  a  tall  slim 
figure,  with  a  quick  nervous  step,  just  as 
he  had  seen  it  a  year  ago.  The  appari- 
tion came  near,  and  held  out  his  open  hand, 
as  if  he  wanted  something.  Lot  Clingerman 
came  to  his  senses.  "What  in  hell  am  I  doing 
here!"  he  said  aloud.  His  uncouth  words 
shocked  the  effete  shadow  and  he  vanished. 
The  thought  flashed  through  the  young  man's 
head  "shall  I  keep  on  and  see  that  girl?"  But 
another  voice  answered  no,  and  began  nam- 
ing over  a  dozen  girls  in  Butte  whom  he 
liked  better.  "Shall  I  go  out  the  Gap  and 
see  the  folks  for  a  day?"  Again  a  voice 
said  no,  "they'd  think  it  queer  to  see  you 
after  sending  you  that  letter  that  you  would 
not  be  east  for  a  year  or  two". 

He  was  feeling  more  sound  and  sane  than 
he  had  in  a  year,  he  wondered  why.  There  was 
nothing  else  to  do  but  to  wander  back  to  Antes 
Fort  and  wait  for  the  west  bound  mail  due 
about  seven-fifteen  the  next  morning.  On  the 
way  he  stopped  at  the  little  hotel  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  Gap.  Like  all  the  rest,  he 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  155 

ordered  a  drink  of  whisky,  eyed  the  crowd 
critically  and  then  blurted  out,  "boys,  oh, 
boys,  I've  seen  a  spook,  what  do  you  know 
about  it?"  A  good  many  of  those  present 
knew  a  good  deal,  some  more  than  they  cared 
to  tell. 

One  old  tottering  clean-shaven  German, 
who  would  have  looked  better  if  he  had  a  set 
of  false  teeth,  got  up  from  a  chair  in  the  cor- 
ner, and  flourishing  his  heavy  sassafras  cane, 
exclaimed,  "Poys,  I  feels  tarn  sorry  for  that 
spook ;  he  vants  to  gif  folks  somesing,  ven  he 
can  do  dat,  he'll  come  no  more."  But  in  the 
general  talk  that  followed  it  was  agreed  that 
it  would  be  pretty  difficult  for  an  airy  form 
to  hold  or  give  out  anything  material,  which 
shows  that  a  bar-room  can  contain  metaphy- 
sicians. "Put  if  he  tidn't  make  efferbotty 
dot  sees  him  come  back  von  year  from  date, 
ve'd  forgive  de  rest",  broke  in  the  old  Ger- 
man. Lot,  who  was  draining  a  heavy  schoon- 
er of  beer,  hit  the  glass  on  the  bar  with  a 
thud.  4iSo  that's  why",  he  said  to  himself, 
gritting  his  teeth,  "I  had  to  come  back  to 
this  God-forsaken  region  tonight." 


VIII. 


CAVES   OF   THE   BALD   EAGLES 
(Story  of  Aughanbaugh  Mountain) 


HILIP  TOMB  was  very  fond 
of  telling  about  a  wonderful 
cave  which  he  discovered 
while  on  one  of  his  hunt- 
ing trips.  It  contained  many 
square  rooms,  stone  bench- 
es, tables  and  altars,  bear- 
ing unmistakable  signs  of 
having  been  cut  by  hand. 
He  was  very  explicit  in  his  descriptions  of 
the  interior  of  the  cavern,  but  equally  reticent 
concerning  its  exact  location.  Sometimes  he 
would  say  it  was  "up  Pine  Creek,"  which 
is  a  pretty  extensive  territory,  on  other  occa- 
sions "on  Tumbling  Run."  As  there  are  four 
or  five  Tumbling  Runs  in  the  State,  it  would 
lead  to  further  mystification. 

There  is  an  old  legend  that  the  Indians 
who  mined  silver  in  the  Bald  Eagle  Moun- 
tains had  a  cavern  where  they  concealed 

156 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  157 

themselves  when  pursued  by  white  eaves- 
droppers, and  this  was  probably  the  cave  vis- 
ited by  Philip  Tomb.  He  evidently  thought 
he  would  discover  some  of  the  silver  bars  and 
for  that  reason  wished  to  keep  the  exact  loca- 
tion secret. 

This  Cave  of  the  silver-mining  Indians  is 
situated  in  the  side  of  the  westerly  mountain 
at  Aughanbaugh  Gap,  near  a  stream  which 
was  once  known  locally  as  Tumbling  Run. 
The  name  has  since  been  changed  several 
times,  and  it  is  now  shrunken  to  a  tiny  rivu- 
let; even  the  Springs  in  the  famous  Little 
Valley  which  helped  feed  it,  seem  to  have 
lost  their  pristine  fullness.  It  never  tum- 
bles over  the  rocks  as  in  the  old  days;  the 
only  thing  that  tumbles  now  are  the  rocks 
as  they  roll  down  the  chute  into  the  hopper 
of  the  big  stone-crusher. 

Poor  Aughanbaugh  Mountain,  stripped  of 
its  timber  and  water-courses,  and  the  quar- 
riers  delving  deep  into  its  sides!  Sooner  or 
later,  if  they  extend  their  operations  at  the 
present  rate,  the  Indians'  cave  will  be  uncov- 
ered, and  new  light  thrown  on  this  strangest 


158  Tales  of  The 

of  antiquities.  Evidently  the  redmen  had 
been  mining  silver  for  centuries,  and  success- 
fully, else  they  would  not  have  constructed 
such  a  solid  and  spacious  underground  laby- 
rinth. It  was  first  built  as  a  council  chamber 
for  the  chiefs  and  captains,  and  from  this  de- 
veloped into  a  store-house  for  the  silver  be- 
fore it  was  apportioned  out  at  the  close  of 
every  twenty  moons.  When  the  white  men 
arrived,  and  began  to  harrass  the  Indians, 
and  later  got  an  inkling  of  their  mining  oper- 
ations, it  was  used  as  a  haven  of  refuge. 

Skillful  in  darting  through  the  trackless 
forests  and  dropping  out  of  sight,  they  could 
run  to  cover,  when  surprised  by  their  jeal- 
ous white  supplanters.  Several  Indian  min- 
ers were  captured  and  tortured  fiendishly, 
but  they  would  not  reveal  the  secrets  of  the 
mines.  The  barbarous  manner  in  which  thev 
were  treated  by  these  whites  explains  why 
the  Bald  Eagle  silver  mines  got  no  further 
than  into  legendary  history.  But  the  last  In- 
dian died  with  the  secret,  and  Philip  Tomb, 
and  one  other  white  man,  were  the  only  repre- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  159 

sentatives  of  the  pale  faces  who  stumbled 
into  this  subterranean  fastness. 

An  Indian  whom  we  shall  call  Huntsman's 
Cup,  was  the  last  chief  who  carried  on  the 
mining  operations  on  a  large  scale.  In  the 
rniclst  of  his  labors  he  was  summoned  to  New 
York  State  to  join  in  a  general  defense  of  his 
tribe,  but  somewhere,  near  the  border,  he  was 
surprised  at  his  camp  fire  by  a  band  of  cross- 
grained  Germans,  and  with  his  entire  party 
perished. 

The  Germans,  who  were  on  their  way  to 
make  a  settlement  in  Chemung  County,  New 
York,  did  not  know  the  mining  story,  and 
after  the  massacre  made  no  effort  to  find  the 
ores  the  Indians  were  transporting.  Possi- 
bly the  rich  silver  bars  are  lying  somewhere 
in  the  woods  on  the  headwaters  of  Babb's 
Creek. 

For  years  afterwards  Indians  camped  near 
the  mouth  of  Pine  Creek  annually,  and  were 
said  to  be  carrying  on  silver  mining.  They 
were  importuned  and  annoyed,  but  kept  at 
their  work  manfully.  When  they  did  stop 
coming,  they  said  it  was  only  because  of  the 


160  Tales  of  The 

angry  ghosts  they  encountered ;  at  least,  that 
is  the  story  told  by  a  younger  Indian  named 
Billy  Douty  who  was  brought  to  the  moun- 
tains at  a  later  date  to  try  and  re-discover  the 
mines.  The  writer  visited  the  reservation 
along  the  Alleghany  River  in  May,  1908,  but 
learned  that  poor  Billy  had  been  hit  by  an 
Erie  midnight  flyer  while  returning  from  a 
roystering  bout  at  Salamanca,  a  couple  of 
weeks  before.  That  ended  any  chances  of 
learning  the  ghost  story  from  him. 

But  there  was  the  one  other  white  man,  be- 
sides Philip  Tomb,  mentioned  earlier  in  this 
story,  who  chanced  into  the  cave.  He  was 
glad  to  get  out,  and  said  that  he  knew  why 
Philip  Tomb  had  been  so  chary  about  renew- 
ing his  acquaintance  with  the  place.  But 
there  are  reasons  why  he  was  prejudiced. 
Ke  was  a  Civil  War  renegade.  When  hostili- 
ties between  North  and  South  had  reached  a 
fever  heat,  and  every  man  available,  even 
grandfathers,  was  wanted  for  service  in  the 
field,  the  draft  was  instituted  to  enforce  pa- 
triotism. In  Pennsylvania,  some  whose  du- 
ties at  home  made  them  dubious  about  enlist- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  161 

ment,  submitted  cheerfully  when  their  names 
were  drawn,  but  others  with  little  or  no  ex- 
cuses, rebelled  against  the  system.  Some 
even  crippled  themselves,  others  took  to  the 
woods  or  went  west,  and  one  worthy  after 
'filling  up  with  hard  cider  got  into  bed,  and 
sat  there  with  loaded  shot-gun  in  hand,  ready 
to  "pepper"  any  draft  officers  that  chanced 
his  way.  In  the  wilder  regions,  several  mar- 
shals and  officers  were  shot,  and  considerable 
ill  feeling  was  engendered  among  persons 
with  "copperhead"  tendencies. 

The  renegade  in  question  said  he  had  a 
big  family  to  support,  and  wouldn't  enlist. 
All  he  had  was  a  wife  and  one  half  grown 
daughter,  a  girl  old  enough  to  be  learning 
dressmaking.  He  had  a  next  door  neighbor 
who  went  to  the  front  in  1861,  leaving  a  wife 
with  eight  children,  besides  an  aged  father 
and  mother,  dependent  on  him.  But  that 
made  no  matter  with  the  renegade,  his  fam- 
ily was  big  in  his  eyes;  he  wouldn't  fight  in 
any  war  that  had  been  caused  by  a  squabble 
over  what  he  called  "niggers."  "A  man's 
a  fool  to  fight  for  Uncle  Sam;  the  country 


162  Tales  of  The 

never  was  run  right,  let  it  go  to  smash  now 
and  begin  over  again",  was  another  of  his 
anti-enlistment  broadsides.  But  maybe  on 
account  of  this  loud  talk  at  night  around  the 
post-office,  or  at  the  railroad  station,  when 
the  evening  train  came  in,  he  became  a  mark- 
ed man  with  the  draft  officials.  It  was  not 
long  before  his  name  was  drawn,  and  a  no- 
tice sent  to  him  to  report  on  a  certain  date 
at  Williamsport.  Two  men  about  his  own  age, 
neighbors,  were  drawn  at  the  same  time ;  the 
draft  had  fallen  heavily  in  the  little  moun- 
tain hamlet.  Bright  and  early  the  chosen 
three  were  at  the  station.  Two  of  them  were 
surrounded  by  weeping  mothers,  wives  and 
children,  while  the  third  stood  nearby  chew- 
ing tobacco  and  whittling  a  stick  of  white 
pine.  His  cool  demeanor  wasn't  noticed  until 
after  the  train  came  in,  and  the  two  men 
climbed  on  board.  "Aren't  you  coming  along, 
Mike?"  yelled  one  of  the  conscripts,  as  the 
conductor  gave  the  signal  to  start.  "Hell, 
no,"  he  answered,  "let  'em  send  for  me." 
There  were  enough  copperheads  in  the  crowd 
to  enable  him  to  sneak  away  unmolested,  and 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  163 

the  train  started  down  the  valley,  carrying 
the  two  brave-hearted  patriots. 

When  they  reported  at  the  recruiting  of- 
fice, the  absence  of  the  third  party  from 
Mountainburg  was  noticed.  The  conscripts 
admitted  they  had  seen  him  at  the  station, 
but  said  he  had  shown  no  inclination  to  ac- 
company them.  A  telegraphic  message  was 
sent,  ordering  him  to  come  down  on  the  even- 
ing train,  but  he  did  not  put  in  an  appear- 
ance. A  sergeant  was  at  the  station  when  the 
train  arrived,  and  as  the  recruit  did  not  get 
off,  he  boarded  the  west-bound  train  which 
left  five  minutes  later.  Arriving  at  Moun- 
tainburg, he  was  told  that  his  man  had  left 
the  station  fifteen  minutes  earlier,  saying  he 
was  going  home.  The  agent  declared  that  he 
handed  him  the  message  personally.  The 
sergeant  was  incensed  clean  through,  and 
requisitioned  a  horse  and  carryall  that  was 
tied  back  of  the  station,  to  quicken  his  speed 
to  the  renegade's  home. 

The  fellow's  cabin  stood  at  the  edge  of  the 
pine  forest,  and  all  the  windows  were  bright- 
ly lit  as  the  officer  approached.  He  knocked 


164  Tales  of  The 

at  the  door  which  was  opened  by  a  half-grown 
girl.  "Where's  your  pop?"  demanded  the 
sergeant.  "He's  gone  to  Williamsport  to  be 
a  soldier,"  said  the  girl  looking  him  squarely 
in  the  eyes.  For  a  minute  the  sergeant  was 
puzzled ;  he  might  have  missed  the  man  in  the 
crowd  at  the  depot,  but  on  the  other  hand,  he 
had  been  told  by  half  a  dozen  reliable  people 
at  Mountainburg  that  he  had  not  boarded 
the  train.  Then  he  realized  he  was  being 
hoaxed.  He  angrily  demanded  that  the  girl 
tell  the  real  whereabouts  of  her  father,  but 
she  remained  firm.  Then  he  commenced  a 
search  of  the  shanty,  but  he  only  found  the 
renegade's  wife,  sitting  calmly  on  the  back 
steps  smoking  her  pipe,  listening  to  the  katy- 
dids. Threatening  wife  and  daughter  with 
arrest,  he  left  for  the  station,  a  baffled  man. 
Afterwards  he  was  told  that  while  he  was 
arguing  with  the  girl  at  the  front  door,  a  dark 
figure,  carrying  a  rifle  under  his  coat, 
emerged  from  the  chicken-house  at  the  back 
of  the  yard,  and  disappeared  into  the  inky 
depths  of  the  pinewood.  The  sergeant  re- 
turned to  Williamsport  on  the  midnight  train, 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  165 

and  a  reward  was  at  once  offered  for  the  con- 
script. It  would  seem  like  money  easily  earn- 
ed, but  some  of  the  natives  sympathized  with 
the  wretch,  and  warned  him  whenever  the 
trail  grew  hot.  Besides  he  knew  the  moun- 
tain paths,  his  pursuers  did  not;  perhaps  the 
sympathetic  natives  mystified  them  at  times. 
But  every  day  it  became  harder  and  harder 
to  get  provisions  to  him;  his  family  were 
under  surveilance  and  couldn't  go,  and  it  was 
often  difficult  for  others  to  spare  the  time  to 
carry  his  dinner  bucket  over  seven  or 
eight  miles  of  mountain  byways. 

Down  on  Aughanbaugh  Mountain  the  ever- 
green timber  grew  thicker  and  blacker  than 
on  any  other  mountain  in  the  chain  of  the 
Bald  Eagles.  Even  today,  what  few  of  the 
"black-tops"  that  survived  the  lumbermen 
richly  deserve  their  picturesque  appelation 
as  they  rear  their  sombre  heads  from  among 
the  other  trees.  It  was  here  that  the  rene- 
gade made  his  headquarters ;  few  would  trail 
him  into  this  deserted  region. 

He  was  frightfully  lonesome,  and  some  of 
the  nights  were  very  cold,  as  he  bivouacked  in 


166  Tales  of  The 


the  jungle,  too  hungry  to  find  much  comfort 
at  having  cheated  Uncle  Sam.  His  conscience 
began  troubling  him,  and  that  added  consid- 
erably to  his  woes.  It  was  hard  to  put  in 
the  time,  the  days  and  nights  seemed  inter- 
minable ;  sleep  appeared  to  have  deserted  him, 
hunger  alone  kept  pace  in  the  solitude.  His 
friends  left  pails  of  provisions  as  regularly 
as  they  could,  but  he  often  had  to  go  without 
two  of  his  three  meals.  This  empty  feeling 
may  have  helped  the  birth  of  his  conscience; 
it  often  does.  He  saw  lots  of  game  but  was 
afraid  to  shoot,  fearing  the  shots  would  be- 
tray him.  He  was  even  afraid  to  kindle  a 
fire.  He  imagined  he  was  getting  all  manner 
of  diseases,  every  cracking  twig  was  a  cap- 
tor approaching,  every  shudder  of  the  leaves 
an  accusing  voice.  His  mental  state  was  hid- 
eous, stumbling  about  in  the  hemlock  glades, 
trying  to  figure  out  what  to  do  next. 

Late  one  afternoon,  worn  out  from  his 
aimless  travels,  he  sat  down  on  a  rock,  watch- 
ing some  yellow  birch  leaves  floating  on  the 
glassy  surface  of  a  small  pool.  He  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands,  cursing  himself  and 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  167 

his  luck  with  an  endless  stream  of  blasphe- 
mies. In  the  midst  of  his  lamentations  he 
felt  a  cold  breath  on  the  back  of  his  neck, 
like  a  breeze  from  some  underground  vault. 
He  looked  around,  the  air  seemed  to  issue 
from  a  crevice  between  two  upright  rocks, 
weatherbeaten  and  lichen  covered.  He  cut  a 
stout  pole  and  was  able  to  pry  one  of  the 
rocks  aside.  It  disclosed  an  opening  into  the 
side  of  the  mountain,  sufficiently  large  for  a 
man  to  crawl  through.  At  the  sight  of  this 
the  outlaw  forgot  most  of  his  troubles,  even 
conscience  became  temporarily  diverted. 
Then  he  got  down  on  his  hands  and  knees 
and  crawled  into  the  opening.  At  most  he 
expected  to  find  the  den  of  some  wild  animal, 
probably  a  large  black  bear.  He  had  not 
moved  more  than  a  hundred  feet,  when  he 
found  himself  in  a  vast  room,  the  ceiling  of 
which  was  at  least  twenty  feet  high.  It  was 
square  in  form,  and  neatly  walled  up,  the 
work  of  skilled  masons. 

Beyond  was  a  doorway  which  apparently 
led  into  another  similar  chamber.  But  he 
was  too  much  surprised  by  this  one  room  to 


168  Tales  of  The 

want  to  venture  further  just  yet.  At  the  far 
end,  in  ono  corner,  was  a  pedestal  cut  out  of 
granite  or  ganister,  that  looked  like  a  sacri- 
ficial altar.  In  the  centre  of  the  room  was  a 
square  table,  cut  from  a  solid  block  of  gray 
rock.  Grouped  around  it  were  a  dozen  or 
more  stone  seats.  Along  one  wall  was  a  stone 
couch,  or  reclining  chair.  The  atmosphere 
of  the  place  was  soothing  and  cozy,  and  not 
too  cool,  so  the  visitor  seated  himself  on  the 
reclining  bench,  to  make  out  whether  or  not 
he  was  dreaming.  If  he  wasn't,  then  he  was 
face  to  face  with  one  of  the  greatest  of  curi- 
osities. It  must  be  of  Indian  origin,  he  rea- 
soned, but  what  Indians  were  such  skillful 
masons  and  stone-cutters?  They  must  have 
been  a  race  far  superior  to  the  redmen  he 
used  to  hear  his  grandfather  tell  about.  These 
had  considerable  trouble  to  chip  an  arrow- 
head evenly.  He  took  off  his  heavy  hunting 
coat  and  put  it  back  of  him  as  a  pillow.  His 
torch  began  to  burn  down  to  the  end,  but 
somehow  he  was  oblivious.  He  heard  air- 
currents,  almost  musical  in  their  vibrations 
in  the  inner  recesses  of  the  cave.  He  would 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  169 

go  and  explore  every  foot,  but  he  didn't,  he 
just  sat  and  speculated.  One  of  the  air  cur- 
rents took  an  unexpected  course  and  blew 
out  the  torch  altogether.  He  fell  sound  asleep 
the  same  instant  the  light  was  extinguished. 
He  must  have  slept  several  hours,  that  is  how 
he  figured  it  out.  In  the  midst  of  a  sweet 
dream  about  being  home,  and  free  from  dis- 
grace, he  was  roughly  awakened  by  a  hard 
firm  hand,  shaking  him  by  the  shoulder.  He 
opened  his  eyes,  and  looked  up.  The  gloomy 
cave  was  illuminated  by  a  silvery  light,  like 
fox-fire  of  many  candle  power. 

Close  by  him  loomed  the  figure  of  an  In- 
dian chief,  fully  seven  feet  tall,  silver-grey 
in  color  too,  like  fox-fire.  Around  him  were 
grouped  other  Indians,  some  more  vague  of 
outline  than  others  with  clenched  fists  and 
menacing  expressions.  The  whole  scene  was 
enough  to  have  made  him  die  of  fright;  it 
was  worse  than  a  hundred  Southern  battle- 
fields. 

He  did  not  die  of  fright,  or  even  faint,  his 
ancestors  had  been  brave  men,  and  what  was 
strongest  in  his  make-up  sustained  him  now. 


170  Tales  of  The 

He  gazed  boldly  at  this  army  of  sepulchral 
inquisitors.  The  tall  Indian  chief  began  to 
speak  to  him  in  a  strange  tongue,  but  soon 
the  words  seemed  to  find  equivalents  in  his 
brain.  He  may  have  jumped  at  the  purport 
of  the  speech  from  the  tone  of  the  voice  and 
the  movement  of  the  lips.  At  any  rate  he 
knew  the  meanings.  George  Moore  says 
"The  Gods  speak  not  in  any  mortal  lan- 
guage, one  becomes  aware  of  their  immor- 
tal Presence."  But  at  first  he  was  too  dazed 
to  act  on  the  demands.  Seeing  this,  the 
huge  Indian  seized  him  again  by  the 
shoulder,  and  tried  to  shove  him  off  the 
bench.  The  heavy  hand  pressure  lacked 
something;  we  are  not  impelled  forward 
by  a  fog.  All  the  while  the  Indian  was  talk- 
ing angrily.  "Get  out  of  this  place",  he 
seemed  to  say,  "you  are  a  vile  coward,  a  ren- 
egade, a  runaway,  a  poltroon.  This  cavern 
never  sheltered  one  of  your  kind  before,  you 
are  making  it  an  unfit  place  even  for  the 
matchless  spirits  of  brave  warriors  who  lived 
long  ago.  Begone,  wretched  craven,  do  not 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  171 

pollute  this  pure  atmosphere  with  your  foul 
presence,  begone!" 

With  these  last  words  he  strove  harder  than 
ever  to  dislodge  the  half -dazed,  half-stubborn 
intruder.  All  efforts  might  have  failed  had 
not  the  other  Indian  shades  swept  forward, 
and  their  combined  effort,  like  a  night-wind, 
tumbled  him  from  the  couch.  He  fell  to  the 
stone  floor,  cutting  an  ugly  gash  in  his  fore- 
head. Stumbling  to  his  feet,  he  lunged 
towards  the  opening  as  best  he  could.  He 
plunged  out  into  the  darkness,  and  as  he  did 
so  he  heard  the  tall  gate-rock  which  he  had 
dislodged  fall  back  into  position. 

He  fell  into  the  pool,  extracting  himself 
with  difficulty.  He  sat  for  some  time  by  the 
pond,  gradually  coming  to  his  senses  as  he 
saw  shafts  of  light  sifting  through  vague 
openings  in  the  tall  trees.  But  these  soon 
closed  up,  giving  way  to  a  drizzling  rain.  As 
the  drops  touched  his  face,  he  got  up,  burn- 
ing with  a  new  resolve.  Wiping  the  clotted 
blood  from  his  brow,  he  started  down  the 
hillside,  over  the  jagged  rocks,  and  along  a 


172  Tales  of  The  Bald  Eagle  Mountains 

trail,  which  followed  Tumbling   Run  to  the 
river. 

When  he  came  in  sight  of  the  railroad 
track,  he  stopped,  and  stripped  off  his  red 
shirt.  He  threw  it  over  one  shoulder  and 
leaned  against  an  original  white  pine  tree, 
which  until  it  was  felled  a  few  years  ago,  by 
the  contractors  who  built  the  double  track, 
was  known  as  "the  deserter's  tree",  and  wait- 
ed. In  the  distance  he  heard  the  treble  whis- 
tle of  the  morning  train,  coming  through  the 
mist.  He  got  out  on  the  ties,  and  began 
waving  the  red  shirt  frantically.  The  engine 
was  almost  upon  him  when  the  crew  noticed 
the  demonstration  and  threw  on  the  brakes. 
The  renegade  climbed  into  the  coach,  and 
dropped  heavily  into  one  of  the  rickety  seats. 
The  conductor  appeared  for  the  ticket,  but 
was  told  that  Uncle  Sam  would  pay  the 
freight.  This  angered  the  conductor  who 
started  to  pull  the  bell  rope.  The  impudent 
passenger  grabbed  his  arm  whispering,  "Say 
brother  don't  do  it,  I  reckon  you'll  get  reward 
enough  by  carrying  a  damned  deserter  into 
Billsport". 


IX. 


PATHFINDER'S    CHILD 
(Story  of  the  Round  Top) 


0  Levi  Cornprobst  everything 
Indian  was  detestable,  ex- 
cept the  beauty  of  some  of 
their  women.  And  these  he 
regarded  more  as  a  chattel, 
than  as  rational,  feeling, 
human  beings.  He  may 
have  had  a  sense  of  honor 
in  regard  to  his  relations 
with  white  girls,  he  said  he  had  at  any  rate, 
but  he  would  deceive  an  Indian  girl  without 
a  qualm.  His  constant  motto  was,  "The  soon- 
er the  Indians  are  gone,  the  better  for  the 
country."  Wrecking  the  lives  of  Indian  girls 
was  helping  along  the  demolition  of  the  race, 
and  affording  him  pleasure  as  well.  It  was 
a  labor  of  "love/'  put  plainly.  Being  good- 
looking  and  stalwart,  his  campaign  against 
Indian  women  was  assured  of  success.  A 
homely  man  could  have  butchered  warriors 

173 


174  Tales  of  The 

and  old  squaws  to  his  heart's  content,  but 
the  copper-colored  girls  would  have  turned 
their  backs  on  him,  and  disappeared  into  the 
forests.  Levi's  good  looks  was  a  fatal  mag- 
net that  drew  the  maidens  to  their  destruc- 
tion. There  always  was  a  peculiar  fascina- 
tion about  handsome  white  men  on  the  part  of 
Indian  girls.  Nine  times  out  of  ten  they  pre- 
ferred a  sturdy  Scotch-Irishman  or  German 
to  any  sinewy  member  of  their  own  race. 
Few  of  these  respected  them  individually  or 
as  a  race,  consequently  their  attachments 
were  foreordained  to  end  in  physical  ruin  and 
suicide.  No  Indian  girl  could  stand  the  taunts 
of  her  jealous  sisters  or  former  lovers  when 
betrayed  by  a  white  man.  She  would  invari- 
ably wander  off  to  some  cave,  like  a  wood- 
nymph,  and  stab  herself  in  the  breast  with  a 
poisoned  arrow,  or  else  tie  a  heavy  rock  about 
her  neck,  and  leap  off  a  ledge  into  the  bowl 
below  a  waterfall.  She  would  emerge  a  fra'l 
and  willowy  spirit,  to  flit  about  on  moonless 
nights  awhile  and  sob,  and  then  become  a  part 
of  the  elements  from  which  her  soul  origin- 
ated. 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  175 

"The  Indians  are  here  to  be  killed,  and  their 
women  folks  to  be  loved",  was  Levi's  code 
of  justification.  His  parents  said  that  he  had 
been  born  in  the  Palatinate,  but  this  he  al- 
ways denied  indignantly.  He  knew  where  he 
was  born,  he  said,  it  was  right  in  the  shadow 
of  Fort  Dietrich  Snyder,  in  Schuylkill  Coun- 
ty. Wasn't  his  godmother  Dolly  Hope,  who 
later  became  the  bride  of  the  fearless  Sny- 
der himself?  German  or  not  as  he  may  have 
been,  Levi  Cornprobst  was  often  taken  for 
young  James  Brady,  who  met  with  such  a 
melancholy  death  at  the  hands  of  the  red- 
men. 

It  is  related  that  a  week  after  the  burial 
of  the  "Young  Captain  of  the  Susquehanna," 
a  party  of  backwoodsmen  met  Levi  walking 
near  the  Bull  Run  graveyard  and  took  to 
their  heels,  thinking  it  was  the  gallant  hero 
risen  from  the  dead.  But  the  resemblance, 
if  it  existed,  was  superficial,  as  Cornprobst 
was  altogether  lacking  in  those  noble  qualities 
of  mind  and  heart  so  noticeable  in  this  young 
martyr  of  the  West  Branch.  Levi  was  very 
proud  of  his  cumbersome  German  rifle,  and 


176  Tales  of  The 

on  the  walnut  stock  had  cut  five  nicks,  which 
meant  five  redmen  had  fallen  to  his  unerring 
aim.  Six  was  his  lucky  number,  he  contend- 
ed, he  must  get  one  more  before  peace  was 
declared.  "Damn  those  Quakers",  he  would 
say,  "they're  trying  to  smooth  things  over 
while  we  are  working  to  rid  the  country  of 
the  Indians,  why  can't  they  let  us  alone  ?" 

Despite  the  five  nicks  on  his  rifle-stock,  the 
Indian  girls  still  "made  up  him,"  ties  of 
blood  did  not  matter  much  when  a  handsome, 
six-foot  frontiersman  was  within  call.  "After 
a  man's  known  a  hundred  Indian  girls,  then 
it's  time  to  find  a  white  wife",  he  would  say. 
It  was  down  in  Dry  Valley  that  he  first  ran 
across  Poly-galah.  She  was  the  most  win- 
some Indian  girl  who  ever  crossed  his  path. 
"I'll  bet  she  had  a  white  man  for  a  father", 
was  the  highest  compliment  he  paid  her.  But 
that  is  doubtful,  as  apart  from  a  light  or 
pinkish  complexion,  she  was  a  Monsey  maid 
in  every  particular.  Her  father,  Greatshot, 
was  a  noted  hunter,  and  sometime  warrior, 
and  at  the  period  when  Levi  met  his  daugh- 
ter, he  was  encamped  trying  to  heal  a  bad 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  177 

gun  wound  in  one  of  his  feet.  As  he  could 
not  travel  and  fight  he  professed  the  great- 
est friendliness  for  all  the  white  men  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  there  was  not  one  but 
who  helped  him  in  his  trouble.  But  the  wound 
would  not  heal,  "Some  white  devil's  put  a 
spell  on  me",  was  the  way  he  summed  up  his 
ailment  when  none  of  the  secretly  hated  race 
were  present.  Levi  somehow  managed  to  get 
together  a  lot  of  salves  and  medicines  in  his 
cabin,  and  these  he  doled  out  in  small  quan- 
tities, provided  Poly-galah  came  after  them. 
He  could  have  given  all  the  stuff  to  the 
wounded  warrior  at  once,  or  taken  it  to  him 
daily,  as  he  lived  but  half  a  mile  away,  but 
he  wanted  to  lure  the  maiden,  that  was  cer- 
tain. 

From  Poly-galah's  point  of  view,  she  would 
have  been  deeply  disappointed  if  there  was 
no  medicine  to  go  after ;  she  felt  enough  mod- 
esty to  make  her  want  an  excuse  for  going 
often  to  the  young  pathfinder's  shack.  She 
was  a  medium-sized  girl,  neatly  formed,  with 
features  clearly  defined.  Her  hair  was  of 
softer  texture  than  the  "manes"  of  most  In- 


178  Tales  of  The 

dian  girls.  She  was  not  "flat-faced,"  a  noted 
Indian  peculiarity.  Levi  noticed  this;  if  she 
had  been  flat-faced  a  single  night  in  her  com- 
pany would  have  sufficed.  "When  I  meet  a 
pie-face",  he  once  said,  "I  shut  my  eyes  and 
think  of  the  most  beautiful  girl  I  have  ever 
seen."  With  Poly-galah  it  was  different,  he 
looked  on  her  with  open-eyed  admiration.  He 
could  not  see  enough  of  her  clean  cut  mouth 
and  nose,  her  dancing  hazel  eyes. 

The  Indian  girl  was  wildly  infatuated  with 
him,  never  had  she  beheld  such  a  handsome 
man.  She  would  have  laid  down  her  life  for 
him  gladly,  at  that  time.  Levi  was  then  close 
to  twenty-one  years  of  age,  over  six  feet  in 
height,  powerfully  made,  with  aquiline  fea- 
tures and  a  shock  of  stiff,  dark  red  hair.  He 
bunched  it  together  at  the  back  of  his  neck, 
and  tied  it  with  a  piece  of  black  ribbon.  Poly- 
galah  always  liked  to  stroke  his  hair  when  she 
called ;  if  possible  she  would  put  a  fresh  twist 
to  the  ribbon,  under  the  pretext  that  it  was 
coming  undone. 

Levi  was  like  a  catamount  watching  for  his 
prey,  when  he  got  her  where  he  wanted,  he 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  179 

pounced  on  her,  after  that  everything  was 
easy.  During  the  hegira  of  the  romance, 
Poly-galah  forgot  there  was  such  a  thing  as 
marriage  or  duty.  She  was  prostrate,  smitten, 
helpless.  She  stayed  so  long  on  her  visits  to 
the  .pathfinder's  shack,  that  old  Greatshot 
fussed  and  fumed,  which  did  his  wound  no 
good.  But  in  his  dependent  state,  he  feared 
to  forbid  his  daughter's  visits,  else  trouble 
might  result.  Levi  was  too  big  and  too  ugly  a 
customer  to  trifle  with.  "When  I  get  well, 
I'll  ambush  and  kill  him",  was  the  way 
the  old  deerslayer  mapped  out  the  future  of 
the  youth  he  should  have  been  angling  for  as 
son-in-law. 

These  were  the  happiest  days  of  the  fair 
Indian  girl's  career.  The  very  fact  that  her 
lover  made  no  promises,  in  fact  never  once 
discussed  the  future,  left  her  in  a  delightful 
state  of  uncertainty.  She  was  always  fear- 
ing that  some  morning  she  would  find  him 
gone.  Literally  she  wanted  the  man  because 
she  could  not  have  him. 

There  had  been  a  young  warrior  tenting 
with  her  father  during  the  early  days  of  his 


180  Tales  of  The 

mishap,  named  Little  Johnny  Brokenstraw, 
but  Poly-galah's  rudeness  to  him  had  driven 
him  to  parts  unknown.  The  young  Indian, 
when  he  left,  vowed  vengeance  on  every  white 
man. 

Poly-galah  never  cared  for  Indian  youths 
when  white  men  were  about,  and  Little 
Johnny  Brokenstraw  labored  under  the  dou- 
ble disadvantage  of  being  a  homely  Indian. 
That  was  absolutely  inexcusable.  But  he  had 
loved  Poly-galah  with  all  his  heart,  and  could 
have  been  good  to  her,  and  knew  it.  Hence 
his  sulks  for  weeks  in  the  depths  of  the  tall 
timber  after  his  departure. 

Meanwhile  Poly-galah's  sojourns  at  Levi's 
hut  were  longer  and  more  impassioned.  Some 
of  the  frontiersmen  started  the  story  that  she 
had  deserted  her  parents  and  gone  to  keep 
house  for  the  pathfinder.  But  she  was  occa- 
sionally found  about  the  parental  tepee, 
downcast  and  sullen.  At  Levi's  shack  she 
was  all  affection  and  smiles.  At  length  came 
a  time  when  the  glum  countenance  she  wore 
at  home  was  extended  to  her  hours  at  the 
abode  of  her  lover.  Things  had  gone  amiss ; 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  181 

she  had  been  compelled  to  confess  to  him  that 
she  was  to  have  a  child.  This  angered  the 
young  man,  and  it  is  said  he  struck  her  down 
when  he  first  heard  the  news.  Whether  he  did 
so  or  not  cannot  be  proved,  but  this  much  is 
certain,  he  tried  to  discourage  her  visits  from 
that  time  on.  But  she  continued  coming  on 
one  excuse  or  another,  despite  his  abusive 
treatment  whenever  she  put  in  an  appear- 
ance. 

One  morning  she  arrived  to  find  the  inevit- 
able had  happened.  Levi  had  stripped  the 
shack  of  everything  of  value  during  the  night 
and  disappeared.  Poly-galah  sat  down  on  the 
doorstep  and  wept;  she  had  lost  her  lover, 
now  she  would  be  taunted  almost  to  death.  She 
thought  of  the  poisoned  arrow,  of  the  leap 
over  the  waterfall,  but  she  also  remembered 
her  stricken  father,  whose  gangrenous  foot 
was  daily  growing  worse.  Indians  being 
Spartans,  she  decided  to  go  back  and  confess 
everything.  Indian  children  were  often  born 
out  of  wedlock,  and  she  was  to  have  one  by 
a  really  handsome  white  man. 


182  Tales  of  The 

Old  Greatshot  took  the  news  unflinchingly, 
as  did  his  squaw.  Under  his  breath  the  old 
huntsman  muttered  "Great  Spirit,  give  me 
strength  to  get  well  and  ambush  and  kill  that 
dog."  To  her  surprise  Poly-galah  received 
very  few  taunts.  The  neighboring  Indians 
pitied  her  on  account  of  her  father's  condi- 
tion. They  would  not  add  to  her  burdens. 

A  week  before  her  child  was  born,  Little 
Johnny  Brokenstraw,  who  had  heard  every- 
thing, appeared  on  the  scene  and  offered  mar- 
riage. He  had  built  himself  a  grand  lodge- 
house  on  the  north  slope  of  the  Round  Top, 
a  beautiful  mountain  in  the  Bald  Eagle 
range,  in  a  region  that  abounded  with  game, 
and  where  white  men  were  few  and  generally 
inoffensive.  But  Poly-galah  indignantly  re- 
fused him.  She  would  rather  be  the  castoff 
plaything  of  a  handsome  white  man  than  the 
wife  of  a  homely,  undersized  Indian.  Little 
Johnny  Brokenstraw^  repulsed  a  second  time, 
"gathered  up  his  tent  and  silently  stole 
away." 

The  child,  a  fine  boy,  was  born,  and  two 
days  later  Greatshot  breathed  his  last.  The 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  183 

baby  was  called  Little  Levi  Greatshot,  acci- 
dentally putting  a  part  of  Little  Johnny  Bro- 
kenstraw's  name  into  the  composite  cogno- 
men. 

Dry  Valley  was  a  poor  place  for  three 
unprotected  squaws  to  live,  there  was  a 
younger  daughter,  Orchis,  also  a  pretty  girl, 
so  they  yielded  to  the  entreaties  of  some  of 
Greatshot's  former  comrades,  and  moved 
west  with  them,  happening  to  camp  in  one  of 
the  mountain  ridges  directly  south  of  the 
Round  Top. 

But  Little  Johnny  Brokenstraw  did  not 
come  to  see  her.  He  was  devoting  all  his  time 
to  seining  shad  and  trapping  wild  pigeons. 
He  liked  to  see  how  many  he  could  destroy  in 
a  day,  for  the  ruthless  love  of  killing.  He 
must,  have  imagined  each  one  a  miniature 
Levi  Cornprobst.  But  fresh  and  more  seri- 
ous hostilities  broke  out  between  white  set- 
tlers and  Indians,  and  Little  Johnny  gave 
up  killing  shad  and  wild  pigeons  for  the;  more 
edifying  slaughter  of  white  men.  He  had  an 
especial  antipathy  against  Germans.  Some- 
how or  other  in  days  of  truce  he  had  acquired 


184  Tales  of  The 

a  heavy  German  rifle,  and  with  the  renewed 
hostilities,  was  able  to  cut  five  nicks  in  the 
walnut  stock.  In  addition  he  had  five  scalps, 
four  red  and  one  black,  as  proof  positive  of 
his  prowess.  On  some  fine  days  he  wore  these 
aa  a  cape  around  his  massive  shoulders,  the 
black  scalp  in  the  centre.  "I'd  like  to  make 
it  an  even  six",  he  oft  confided  to  his  brothers- 
in-crime.  They  knew  what  he  meant  by  this, 
he  had  his  eye  open  for  Levi  Cornprobst.  But 
it  was  for  the  young  German  to  make  the 
first  move  in  this  game  of  life.  He  had  track- 
ed Little  Johhny  Brokenstraw  with  the  same 
avidity  as  the  Indian  had  trailed  him,  but  for 
a  different  motive.  He  blamed  the  Indian  for 
putting  false  notions  in  Poly-galah's  head, 
without  him,  she  would  have  given  less  trou- 
ble when  she  found  she  was  to  be  a  mother. 
But  all  this  was  utterly  unfounded. 

One  bright  morning  in  the  Indian  summer, 
Little  Johnny  Brokenstraw  was  sitting  in  the 
grass  in  an  open  space  where  there  had  been 
a  windfall,  warming  himself  in  the  fitful  sun- 
light. The  woods  about  him  were  a  riot  of 
bright  yellows,  pinks,  crimsons  and  purples. 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  185 

Nature  seemed  to  tell  her  glory  in  the  hickor- 
ies, tulips,  lindens,  gums  and  maples.  The 
breezes  swayed  the  scarlet  garlands  of  the 
woodbine,  like  Greek  dancers.  The  dark  pines 
and  hemlocks  were  like  sombre  Quakers  who 
took  no  part  in  Nature's  Mardi  Gras.  The 
tall  tree  trunks  were  alive  with  squirrels,  red, 
grey  and  black,  seemingly  in  harmony  on  this 
occasion,  gathering  their  winter's  store.  The 
creek  nearby  had  been  rejuvenated  by  the  fall 
rains,  and  spread  foam  broadcast,  as  it  swept 
over  the  stones  and  driftwood.  A  belated 
dove  was  reiterating  to  an  obstinate  loved- 
one  the  plaint  a-coo,  coo,  coo.  Rejected,  after 
the  long  courtship  it  hurled  itself  across  the 
open  space  with  the  velocity  of  a  catapult. 
A  few  flickers,  perched  perpendicularly,  were 
calling  peremptorily  to  one  another,  "quit, 
quit,  quit,  quit,  quit!"  There  was  a  pale  blue 
haze  over  everything,  like  sunlight  in  half- 
mourning,  especially  over  the  conelike  out- 
lines of  the  distant  Round  Top. 

Little  Johnny  Brokenstraw,  though  dreamy 
like  his  surroundings,  was  awake  to  danger. 
When  he  heard  a  soft  tread  in  the  woods,  very 


186     i  Tales  of  The 

different  from  a  startled  deer,  he  looked 
ahead,  all  attention.  The  German  rifle  lay 
ten  feet  away,  that  was  his  one  act  of  care- 
lessness. He  rued  it  when  he  saw  the  tall 
form  of  Levi  Cornprobst  emerge  from  the 
timber  on  the  opposite,  side  of  the  creek.  It 
was  probable  that  he  saw  Levi  first,  but  it 
was  by  a  close  margin,  if  any.  The  path- 
finder raised  his  rifle,  and.  the  Indian  had  only 
time  to  take  to  flight,  unarmed,,  to  escape  the 
bullet  sent  after  him.  That  was  the  begin- 
ning of  a  chase  which  lasted  all  that  sunshiny 
autumn  morning.  Little  Johnny  Brokenstraw 
was  noted  for  his  fleetness,  but  on  this  occa- 
sion he  had  met  his  match.  Even  though  the 
white  man  stopped  several  times  to  re-load 
his  rifle,  the  Indian  could  not  elude  him.  The 
shots  missed  every  time,  but  the  quarry  was 
becoming  exhausted.  He  stopped  for  breath 
every  time  Levi  did,  but  he  noted  that  his 
pursuer  gained  more  from  these  rests 
than  he.  He  knew  that  the  rifle  was  loaded, 
once  he  gave  up,  he  was  a  "good  Indian",  and 
everyone  knows  what  that  means.  On  one 
occasion  when  he  fell  over  a  big  log,  for  an 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  187 

instant  he  lacked  the  initiative  to  get  up. 
He  had  some  reserve  force,  so  he  sprang  to 
his  feet,  redoubling  his  efforts.  But  his  lungs 
pained  like  molten  lead,  he  was  burning  up 
inside.  His  tongue  hung  out,  he  thought  his 
distended  eyeballs  wou!d  drop  from  the  sock- 
ets. His  feet  ached,  every  muscle  was  sore. 
He  wondered  what  condition  his  foe  could 
be  in,  running  as  fast  and  far,  and  carrying 
a  heavy  German  rifle  as  well.  He  had  cross- 
ed several  ridges,  and  bounded  through  Love 
Run  Gap,  and  then  to  further  tire  his  pur- 
suer, cut  across  the  eastern  slope  of  the 
Round  Top. 

As  he  was  running  down  the  mountain  side, 
in  the  direction  of  the  river,  with  a  vain  idea 
of  swimming  to  safety,  he  suddenly  came 
upon  an  Indian  encampment.  It  hadn't  been 
there  the  day  before;  evidently  they  were 
homeless  savages,  driven  hither  and  thither 
by  the  warfare.  His  bloodshot  eyes  noted  only 
squaws,  a  dozen  or  more  of  them.  Then  he 
tripped  over  a  basket,  and  fell  to  his  knees, 
waving  his  long  arms,  and  trying  to  articulate 
a  cry  of.  defeat  and  fear.  An  old  squaw  was 


188  Tales  of  The 

seated  by  a  pile  of  stones  which  had  been 
heaped  up  to  make  a  hearth  for  the  camp 
fire;  near  her,  resting  on  a  stump,  was  a 
loaded  musket. 

Levi  Cornprobst,  rifle  in  hand,  a  half  min- 
ute later,  appeared  on  the  edge  of  the  camp, 
his  face  fiery  red  from  overexertion  and  an- 
ger. Trembling  as  he  was,  he  raised  his  fire- 
arm, to  aim  at  the  kneeling  figure  of  Little 
Johnny  Brokenstraw.  At  this  moment,  the 
figure  of  a  young  squaw,  fairer  of  complex- 
ion, daintier  and  more  slender  than  the  rest, 
bearing  in  her  arms  a  lusty,  chubby  baby  boy, 
it  was  none  other  than  Poly-galah,  threw  the 
child  and  herself  between  Little  Johnny 
Brokenstraw  and  the  bloodthirsty  pathfinder. 
Holding  aloft  the  child,  she  silently  dared  him 
shoot.  He  let  his  hand  slide  along  the  barrel, 
until  he  held  the  rifle  at  the  tip ;  could  he  kill 
Little  Johnny  Brokenstraw  without  endan- 
gering this  child?  He  was  not  given  much 
time  for  reflexion,  as  the  old  squaw,  who  was 
sitting  near  the  loaded  gun,  slipped  her  hand 
to  the  trigger,  and  fired.  Shot  through  the 
abdomen,  Levi  fell  forward,  groaning  and 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains 


twisting  with  agony.  Little  Johnny  Broken- 
straw  rose  to  his  feet  shouting  "I've  got  my 
sixth  scalp  at  last."  But  there  is  no  record 
that  Poly-galah  ever  married  Little  Johnny 
Brokenstraw. 


CONRAD'S   BROOM 
(Story  of  Lower  McElhattan  Mountain) 


T  is  difficult  to  view  the  north 
slope  of  the  lower  Bald 
Eagle  mountain  at  McEl- 
hattan without  catching  a 
glimpse  of  the  Crispin 
Fields.  A  great  circular 
clearing  carved  out  on  the 
mountain  side  one  third  of 
the  distance  from  the  sum- 
mit, it  is  a  conspicuous  landmark  for  miles. 
At  a  distance  it  gives  the  impression  of  be- 
ing well-kept  and  smooth,  but  if  you  visit 
the  ground,  it  will  be  found  to  be  fast  grow- 
ing up  with  young  Pinus  rigida,  sumachs  and 
blackberry  vines.  To  all  intents  it  is  a  part 
of  the  surrounding  woods,  for  the  fences 
have  rotted  or  fallen  down.  A  short  distance 
below  the  western  corner  of  the  fields  is  the 
famous  "lower  gum-stump  spring"  a  source 
of  sweet  pure  water,  which  increases  into  a 

190 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  191 

stream  of  no  mean  proportions,  a  much  larger 
stream  than  that  which  flows  from  the  "main 
gum-stump  spring"  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
further  west. 

It  was  near  the  "lower  gum-stump  spring" 
that  William  Crispin,  a  settler  from  New 
Jersey,  said  to  be  of  English  descent,  erected 
his  log  cabin,  and  commenced  clearing  the 
surrounding  land.  His  former  home  was  in 
the  northern  part  of  his  native  state, 
where  mountains  abounded,  hence  his  selec- 
tion of  a  hillside  plantation  in  Central  Penn- 
sylvania, when  river-bottom  lands  could  have 
been  purchased  cheaply.  On  his  way  up  the 
state,  it  was  a  tedious  journey  in  those  days, 
when  farming  implements  and  household 
goods  had  to  be  transported  in  ox-carts  or 
horse-drawn  wagons  over  rocky  or  muddy 
roads,  he  met,  wooed  and  wed  an  attractive 
German  girl  whose  home  was  near  Weisers- 
burg,  afterwards  called  Selinsgrove.  A  good- 
sized  family  were  born  to  them,  all  handsome 
and  healthy,  of  whom  the  oldest  son  was 
named  Conrad,  after  the  immortal  Col.  Con- 


192  Tales  of  The 

rad  Weiser,  about  whom  Crispin's  wife  had 
heard  so  much  in  her  youth. 

The  section  now  known  as  McElhattan  was 
a  wilderness  even  in  the  early  years  of  the 
nineteenth  century;  it  has  retained  much  of 
its  delicious  old-time  flavor  still,  but  then  it 
was  a  primitive  Arcadia.  Once  Conrad  told 
his  father  that  every  morning  a  large  black 
dog  followed  his  three  little  sisters  and  him- 
self to  school.  When  it  came  too  close  and 
showed  its  teeth,  they  drove  it  away  by 
throwing  pine-knots  at  it.  One  morning 
after  a  snowfall  the  father  accompanied  the 
children  to  school;  he  wanted  to  see  the  dog 
himself.  He  was  able  to  see  it  and  shoot  it; 
the  familiar  dog  turned  out  to  be  a  big  black 
wolf.  It  was  just  when  the  hardy  pioneer 
had  gotten  a  nice  farm  tilled ;  he  had  to  grub 
out  and  burn  hundreds  of  trees  to  do  so, 
to  say  nothing  of  piling  up  countless  rocks, 
that  he  caught  a  heavy  cold  which  developed 
into  pneumonia,  and  he  died  at  the  early  age 
of  forty-five. 

Conrad,  who  was  fifteen  years  old,  at  the 
time,  became  the  head  of  the  household,  and 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  193 

the  continuer  of  the  farming  enterprise.  He 
was  a  stout  boy  for  his  years,  willing,  alert 
and  cheerful.  He  took  up  the  tasks  with  a 
vim,  aiming  to  leave  nothing  unfinished  that 
his  father  had  commenced.  He  was  his  moth- 
er's idol,  like  are  most  boys  who  make  good 
in  any  sphere.  By  the  time  he  was  twenty 
he  had  the  farm  and  livestock  in  good  order, 
so  much  so  that  the  sentimental  German 
mother  was  continually  saying  "Oh,  if  your 
father  could  only  have  lived  to  see  all  this !" 

Chief  among  the  stock  was  a  large  flock 
of  sheep,  and  it  was  told  with  especial  pride 
that  there  had  not  been  a  single  one  taken 
by  a  wolf  or  panther  since  good  William 
Crispin's  death.  This  spoke  volumes  for  the 
watchfulness  of  Conrad  and  his  younger 
brothers.  In  the  yard,  about  the  comfort- 
able cabin,  were  a  goodly  number  of  chickens, 
of  the  oldtime  breeds,  Creeleys,  bunties, 
sprucies,  toppies,  as  well  as  brown  ducks  and 
white  geese  with  black  heads.  The  little  girls 
vied  with  their  brothers  in  keeping  the  foxes 
and  weasels  from  destroying  these,  and 
guarded  them  well. 


194  Tales  of  The 

During  the  long  winters  Conrad  practiced 
other  accomplishments.  He  was  an  expert 
basket-maker  with  oak  or  willow  withes,  and 
grew  some  broom  corn  back  of  the  house, 
from  which  he  made  some  excellent  besoms. 
He  also  was  proficient  in  carving  out  hick- 
ory axe  handles.  At  the  time  of  the  young 
man's  twentieth  birthday  there  were  about 
ten  families  living  on  the  fertile  plain,  within 
the  semi-circle  of  mountains,  now  included  in 
the  boundaries  of  Wayne  Township.  Most 
of  the  families  were  of  Scotch-Irish  origin, 
but  there  were  several  "mixed-households" 
where  the  husbands  were  Scotch-Irish  and 
the  wives  German. 

On  the  sloping  river  bank,  near  the  "big 
bend,"  and  close  to  Spook  Hill  with  its  crum- 
bling palisade  of  Fort  Horn,  lived  a  German 
couple  named  St.  Galmier.  While  their  name 
sounded  more  French  than  German,  they 
spoke  the  tongue  of  the  Fatherland,  in  fact 
could  speak  but  a  very  few  words  of  Eng- 
lish. They  were  most  probably  of  Huguenot 
extraction,  coming  from  ancestors  who  had 
fled  to  Germany  from  France  during  the 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  195 

massacre  on  St.  Bartholomew's  Day.  They 
were  past  middle  age,  and  childless,  when  the 
Crispins  appeared  and  began  clearing  their 
farm  near  the  lower  gum-stump  spring.  Old 
Christ  St.  Galmier,  it  was  said  was  a  butcher 
by  trade,  but  he  had  long  since  abandoned 
everything  except  tilling  a  small  garden 
patch,  and  eternally  fishing  for  shad  and  sal- 
mon. A  few  stalks  of  tobacco  grew  in  his 
meagre  front  yard,  from  this  he  made  his  own 
smoking  materials.  He  was  an  unsociable 
fellow,  sullen  and  uncommunicative,  and  his 
wife,  who  was  his  counterpart,  was  further 
cut  off  from  friendly  intercourse  by  almost 
total  deafness. 

A  couple  of  years  after  the  birth  of  the 
Crispins'  first-born,  Conrad,  old  "Mammy" 
St.  Galmier  became  the  mother  of  a  girl.  At 
least  she  said  she  did,  and  proudly  exhibited  a 
very  beautiful  infant.  Local  gossips  were 
limited  to  one  or  two  individuals  in  such  a 
small  community,  but  these  could  not  hint  at 
the  baby's  parentage,  if  it  had  been  a  found- 
ling. As  Conrad  Crispin  grew  sturdy  arid 
strong,  the  little  St.  Galmier  girl,  who  was 


196  Tales  of  The 

named  Elizabeth,  developed  slight,  blonde  and 
winsome.  No  such  beautiful  child  had  ever 
been  seen  in  the  West  Brand)  Valley,  Vashti 
McElhattan  of  an  earlier  generation,  who 
ran  off  with  an  Indian,  not  excepted. 

Vashti  was  also  a  blonde,  of  much  the  same 
type;  there  have  been  no  blonde  girls  in 
Wayne  Township  since,  not  one.  At  school, 
and  in  the  outdoor  religious  festivals,  the  mu- 
tual fondness  of  Conrad  Crispin  and  Eliza- 
beth St.  Galmier  was  noticed  and  commented 
upon.  The  St.  Galmiers  were  pleased,  but  the 
thought  of  it  struck  terror  to  good  Mother 
Crispin.  She  had  always  feared  the  elder  St. 
Galmiers,  with  their  dark  mysterious  past, 
and  their  supposed  daughter  so  ethereally 
beautiful  belonged  to  the  world  of  black  art, 
in  her  eyes. 

Down  at  Weisersburg  there  was  an  old 
woman,  a  witch,  who  had  the  Black  Book,  the 
"sixth  and  seventh  books  of  Moses,"  and  she 
fancied  she  saw  an  affinity  between  the  fair 
young  girl  and  this  awful  old  "hex"  of  the 
long  ago.  What  the  resemblance  was  she 
never  would  tell,  but  she  kept  warning  Con- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  197 

rad  to  beware,  beware.  This  opposition  only 
fanned  his  interest,  and  as  he  was  such  a 
good  boy  in  every  other  respect,  his  mother 
did  not  like  to  make  it  too  hard  for  him. 
But  when  mother  and  son,  as  they  sat  side 
by  side  on  the  doorstep,  watching  the  sunset 
behind  Mt.  Pipsisseway,  indulged  in  heart 
to  heart  talks,  the  demoniac  origin  of  Eliza- 
beth was  never  neglected.  "That  girl  was 
not  born  to  that  old  woman",  the  good 
mother  would  say,  "she  is  a  she-devil,  that 
took  the  form  of  a  beautiful  girl,  deceiving 
the  old  couple  and  coming  into  this  world  to 
do  mischief.  You  could  not  keep  her  if  you 
married  her,  anymore  than  if  you  tried  to 
keep  the  snow  on  the  roof  from  meltjing 
when  Spring  approaches."  "How  do  you 
know  all  this,  mother?"  the  young  man  would 
plead.  "Never  mind,  son,  I  know  more  than 
you  think,  some  day  I  will  prove  it  to  you." 
Then,  the  sun  having  sunk  behind  the  majes- 
tic peak,  they  would  get  up,  to  go  about  their 
duties.  But  these  words  always  threw  a  pall 
of  jrloom  over  Conrad's  otherwise  happy  and 
hopeful  nature. 


198  Tales  of  The 

Whisperings  of  Mother  Crispin's  opposi- 
tion, and  the  causes  of  it,  spread  about  the 
settlements,  keeping  many  friends  away  from 
Elizabeth.  It  had  one  advantage  to  Conrad, 
no  other  lads  noticed  the  exquisite  girl;  he 
did  not  have  the  annoyance  of  rivals.  He 
would  have  won  out,  though  there  were  a 
dozen,  as  the  girl  cared  for  him  alone.  It 
seemed  as  if  her  destiny  directed  her  to  him. 

Twenty  years  old  in  the  backwoods  was 
accounted  a  good  age,  much  was  done  by  boys 
and  girls  of  that  age,  and  younger.  To  cele- 
brate the  occasion,  Mother  Crispin  asked 
Conrad,  as  his  birthday  drew  near,  to  name 
a  wish,  and  she  would  grant  it  if  in  her 
power.  "I'm  going  to  marry  Elizabeth  some 
day,  mother",  he  replied,  "I  want  you  to  really 
know  her,  can't  I  have  her  here  for  supper 
on  my  birthday?"  The  mother  would  al- 
most as  soon  have  entertained  one  of  the 
black  wolves  from  the  forest,  but  she  loved 
her  son,  and  he  should  have  his  way.  Be- 
sides "the  day  of  reckoning  was  drawing 
near."  A  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing  could  only- 
play  the  farce  a  certain  length  of  time  before 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  199 

blowing  up  like  a  bubble.  Conrad  invited 
Elizabeth  in  the  presence  of  her  parents. 
They  beamed  at  this  compliment  to  their 
strangely  neglected  beauty-child.  "You  will 
have  a  grand  time",  they  said,  "Conrad's 
mother  is  such  a  great  cook." 

Elizabeth  had  passed  her  sixteenth  birth- 
day two  months  before,  was  tall,  and  graceful 
like  a  dryad,  with  hair  of  a  peculiar  golden 
tint,  and  blue  eyes  kept  ever  at  "half-mast" 
to  hide  the  mystery  of  her  soul.  She  had 
marked  peculiarities  for  one  so  young.  Even 
if  there  wasn't  a  story  extant  of  her  ghostly 
origin,  she  was  different  from  girls  of  her 
age,  so  much  so  that  during  her  brief  school- 
days, her  fellow  pupils  dubbed  her  "Cracky." 
The  Irish  schoolmaster,  a  drunken  lout  with 
a  Dublin  University  degree,  predicted  she'd 
"go  to  the  devil  or  marry  the  President."  She 
would  not  learn,  though  she  was  naturally 
clever.  There  is  much  potential  energy  in 
such  young  persons,  though  the  devil  often 
does  Inherit  most  of  it. 

Conrad's  birthday  dawned  bright  and  clear, 
an  ideal  day  in  late  Summer.  As  the  after- 


200  Tales  of  The 

noon  advanced  the  Round  Top  and  the  lower 
McElhattan  Mountain  assumed  the  tone  of 
dark  heliotrope,  while  the  air  smelled  like  that 
exquisite  flower.  There  was  a  pale  gold  man- 
tle above  the  crest  of  Mt.  Pipsisseway. 

Mother  Crispin  outdid  herself  with  the  sup- 
per; it  was  all  in  readiness  for  the  arrival 
of  the  ethereal  guest.  Conrad  seated  him- 
self on  the  door-step,  within  call  of  his  moth- 
er, looking  across  the  clearings,  in  the  direc- 
tion from  which  Elizabeth  would  come.  As 
he  sat  there,  the  good  woman  came  out,  bear- 
ing one  of  the  brooms  which  he  had  made 
the  winter  before,  but  had  never  been  used. 
"Let  me  sweep  off  the  steps,"  she  said,  so 
the  young  man  arose,  while  she  swept  indus- 
triously. He  was  leaning  against  the  house, 
when  far  in  the  distance,  he  espied  his  sweet- 
heart. Mother  Crispin  saw  her  the  same  mo- 
ment. "Conrad",  she  cried,  "I  told  you  that 
Elizabeth  St.  Galmier  is  a  devil,  a  witch; 
now  to  prove  it,  put  this  broom  under  the 
steps,  and  you'll  see  she  will  not  be  able  to 
walk  over  it."  "Oh,  mother,"  said  Conrad, 
ruefully,  "how  can  you  say  such  a  thing, 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  201 

it  would  be  awful  to  do  that,  you  might  as 
well  scatter  mustard  seeds  or  put  a  sieve  on 
the  steps;  if  she  were  a  ghost  she'd  have  to 
count  the  seeds  or  the  holes  in  the  sieve  be- 
fore she  could  proceed."  "I  am  right,  Con- 
rad", said  the  mother  forcibly,  "I  know  that 
girl's  secret;  hurry,  put  this  broom  under  the 
steps."  Conrad  was  hesitating.  "You  do 
it,  mother,  if  you  wish,  I  can't."  "It  would 
not  do  any  good  if  I  put  it  there,  a  witch's 
lover  must  do  it,  if  the  truth  is  to  be  shown." 
Elizabeth  was  still  too  far  off  to  see  them, 
and  there  was  a  fringe  of  paw-paw  trees 
along  the  fence  which  hid  the  cottage.  There 
was  time  to  make  the  test,  to  prove  for  all 
time  the  fair  vision's  innocence  or  guilt. 
Quickly  seizing  the  broom  from  his  mother's 
hand,  he  thrust  it  under  the  steps,  and  ran 
down  the  path  in  the  direction  of  his  loved 
one.  Both  looked  happy  and  beaming  as  they 
drew  near  the  cabin.  Mother  Crispin  was  at 
the  door  to  greet  them.  As  they  came  in 
front  of  the  steps,  Elizabeth  suddenly  paused. 
For  a  bare  instant  the  bright  young  smile 
vanished  off  her  lips;  her  eyes  never  smiled 


202  Tales  of  The 

as  far  back  as  anyone  remembered.  She 
stooped  down,  and  drew  the  new  broom  from 
out  its  hiding  place.  "Oh,  Mother  Crispin", 
said  she,  the  old  gaiety  of  her  voice  fully  re- 
turned, "how  did  this  fine  new  broom 
get  under  the  steps"?  She  rested  it 
against  the  house,  went  up  the  steps,  in- 
side the  cabin,  and  the  little  supper  party 
proceeded.  But  before  grace  was  said 
Elizabeth  presented  her  lover  with  a  pair  of 
mittens  and  a  pair  of  beaded  deerskin  mocca- 
sins of  her  own  knitting.  Never  had  she 
seemed  gayer,  or  more  witty.  Conrad  felt 
sick  at  heart,  but  he  had  to  laugh  at  her  jests, 
he  could  not  be  glum  in  the  presence  of  such 
a  radiant  object.  Mother  Crispin  was  also 
in  good  humor,  hers  was  the  elation  of  vic- 
tory; while  the  other  children  were  joyous 
because  they  were  young  and  the  supper  tast- 
ed good.  Altogether  it  was  a  most  successful 
party;  they  sat  at  table  a  good  hour  and  a 
half,  partly  joking  and  bantering.  There 
were  many  sincere  good  wishes  for  Conrad's 
future  happiness,  and  Elizabeth's. 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  203 

About  ten  o'clock,  a  late  hour  for  moun- 
taineers, the  young  girl  started  homeward, 
accompanied  by  her  lover.  There  was  a  young 
moon,  with  its  horns  pointed  to  the  east. 
"Don't  they  look  like  the  devil's  horns",  said 
Elizabeth  as  they  emerged  from  the  wood. 
Conrad  thought  that  very  strange  talk,  but 
said  nothing.  All  was  congenial  and  gay,  and 
they  kissed  a  long  lingering  good-night  as 
they  parted  at  the  St.  Galmier  cabin.  When 
she  opened  the  door,  her  pet  cat,  a  huge  brin- 
dled creature,  with  six  toes  on  each  foot  trot- 
ted out  and  rubbed  himself  against  her  skirts. 
The  young  moon,  reflected  horns  downward, 
was  dancing  on  the  calm  river  when  the 
young  lover  started  back  to  the  mountain. 
"Elizabeth,  oh,  Elizabeth,  was  there  ever 
anyone  like  you  in  the  world",  he  kept  repeat- 
ing as  he  treaded  his  lonely  way.  A  great 
horned  owl  perched  in  a  white  pine  tree  with 
supernaturally  long  branches  insisted  on  an- 
swering "no,  no,  no,  no,  no !"  Whether  from 
the  elation  of  the  entire  affair,  or  the  broom- 
stick episode,  Conrad  could  not  sleep  that 
night.  Through  the  closed  window  he  could 


204  Tales  of  The 

still  hear  the  owl  re-iterate  "no,  no,  no,  no, 
no-o-o."  He  dozeiLoff  a  little  while  just  be- 
fore daybreak. 

At  six  o'clock  there  was  a  knocking  at  the 
door.  Conrad  opened  it,  and  found  old  Christ 
St.  Galmier  waiting  outside.  There  had  been 
a  white  frost,  and  the  old  man's  face  looked 
as  ashen  as  the  dew-enameled  grass.  "Eliza- 
beth's very  sick,  she  wants  to  see  you  at  once", 
said  the  old  man  in  German.  Without  wait- 
ing to  find  his  cap  the  young  lad  followed  him 
to  the  cabin  by  the  river-side.  He  found  the 
girl  in  bed,  breathing  heavily,  and  only  partly 
conscious.  He  could  not  be  sure  if  she  recog- 
nized him  or  not.  All  day  and  all  night  he 
remained  with  her,  the  old  couple  meanwhile 
plying  her  with  herb  remedies.  By  the  fol- 
lowing morning  she  seemed  to  improve,  and 
opened  her  droopy  eyelids,  smiling  sweetly 
with  her  smooth,  arched  lips.  But  she  never 
uttered  a  syllable.  Conrad  felt  he  should  go 
home  for  a  few  hours,  so  taking  advantage 
of  her  favorable  condition,  he  started  away. 

When  he  was  returning,  after  dinner,  he 
met  old  St.  Galmier  half  way.  "Elizabeth'r 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  205 

dead",  the  old  man  muttered,  "she  passed 
away  suddenly  fifteen  minutes  ago,  just  after 
she  had  begun  talking  to  us  so  nicely." 
"What  were  her  last  words?"  said  Conrad. 
"Oh,  something  about  she  wished  you'd  al- 
ways believe  in  her."  The  rest  of  the  way, 
the  two  men  walked  in  silence. 

Conrad  was  ushered  into  the  presence  of 
the  dead,  but  great  was  his  surprise.  Though 
life  had  only  vanished  a  brief  half  hour,  every 
trace  of  her  former  beauty  was  missing.  It 
seemed  like  the  corpse  of  an  old  weazened, 
wrinkled  woman,  and  not  a  sixteen  year  old 
girl.  The  bright  gold  hair  had  faded  to  an 
ash  or  silver  color.  Even  the  teeth  had  fall- 
en out.  Conrad  was  shocked,  but  made  no 
comment.  In  the  ensuing  hours  he  helped  old 
St.  Galmier  construct  a  coffin  out  of  pine 
boards,  which  the  aged  man  had  recently 
bought  at  young  Billy  McElhattan's  water- 
mill  to  build  a  bed.  Several  neighbors  called 
during  the  afternoon,  and  left,  shaking  their 
heads,  after  viewing  the  remains. 

At  nightfall  the  young  man  felt  he  ought 
to  sit  up  with  the  dead,  but  duty  to  his  moth- 


206  Tales  of  The 

er  called  him  homeward.  One  of  his  good 
friends,  Hugh  McMahon,  offered  to  do  the 
office  for  him.  On  his  way  home  a  screech- 
owl  chasing  a  mouse  scurried  across  the  path 
in  front  of  him,  flapping  its  big  flat  wings. 
He  should  have  turned  back  as  it  meant  bad 
luck,  but  didn't.  That  night  he  slept,  but 
had  troubled  dreams.  Though  it  was  chilly 
he  always  kept  the  window  of  his  room  open. 
It  seemed  he  saw  a  female  figure  astride  a 
broomstick  flying  across  the  horned  moon,  a 
cat  upon  her  back. 

At  dawn  he  started  for  the  house  of  sorrow. 
Midway  he  met  old  Christ,  leaning  on  a  staff, 
and  puffing  for  breath,  as  he  hobbled  along. 
"My  God,  Conrad,"  he  exclaimed,  "Hugh  went 
out  for  a  drink  of  water  about  midnight,  and 
someone  stole  our  corpse;  the  pet  cat,  over- 
come with  grief,  has  also  disappeared."  Con- 
rad turned  white  as  the  hoar  frost,  and  trem- 
bled like  an  aspen.  The  truth  was  now  re- 
vealed, though  he  dared  not  offend  the  old 
man  by  telling  it  to  him.  He  hurried  to  the 
cabin,  carefully  examining  the  premises,  but 
could  see  no  earthly  way  that  the  body  could 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  207 

have  been  removed.  McMahon,  sobbing  like 
a  child,  sat  on  a  log  by  the  river;  surely  he 
was  not  to  blame.  The  only  charitable  thing 
to  do  was  to  say  that  the  body  had  been 
stolen  by  persons  unknown.  After  consoling 
the  grief-stricken  couple  as  best  he  could, 
Conrad  returned  home. 

His  mother  met  him  at  the  door.  "My  God, 
Conrad  son,"  she  said,  when  he  had  told  her 
everything,  "I  knew  it  was  so,  and  to  further 
prove  it  that  new  broom  has  vanished."  The 
young  man  made  a  search,  it  was  nowhere 
to  be  found,  and  gone  also  were  the  mocca- 
sins and  mittens  given  him  by  Elizabeth.  "It 
must  have  been  she  I  saw  last  night  riding 
athwart  of  the  moon",  he  mused  sadly. 


XI. 


THE   GIANTESS 
(Story  of  McElhattan  Mountain) 


HEN  the  great  flood  of  St. 
Patrick's  Day,  1865,  laid 
bare,  in  the  bed  of  McElhat- 
tan Creek,  the  gigantic 
statue  of  a  giantess  carved 
out  of  black  flint,  the  old 
settlers,  and  the  few  In- 
dians who  remained  at 
Nichols's  Run,  predicted  a 


series  of  disasters  to  the  neighborhood. 
Every  time  the  swarthy  monster,  with  its  sul- 
len, angry,  but  not  unlovely  countenance,  her 
form  enveloped  in  a  loose  mantle,  was  dis- 
closed to  view,  wars,  pestilences,  famines, 
floods,  general  misery  ensued.  And  all  this 
in  less  than  three  hundred  years  as  the  figure 
was  carved  from  the  stone  during  the  last 
years  of  the  sixteenth  century.  When  it  was 
uncovered  by  the  flood  of  1865,  the  accounts 
which  appeared  in  the  Clinton  County  news- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  209 

papers  heralded  it  as  a  relic  of  remote  an- 
tiquity, and  it  would  have  been  generally  ac- 
cepted as  such,  had  it  not  been  for  the  "old 
timers"  who  knew  the  legend  of  its  compara- 
tively recent  origin.  For  once  in  its  career 
it  was  only  a  seven  days  wonder.  The  para- 
graphs in  the  papers  attracted  a  few  anti- 
quarians to  the  scene  and  the  native  moun- 
taineers marvelled  and  brought  their  families, 
but  the  closing  events  of  the  Civil  War  and 
Lincoln's  assassination  soon  overshadowed  it. 
A  freshet  in  September  broke  the  drift 
pile  which  had  diverted  the  stream  from  its 
original  course,  and  the  "Giantess  of  McEl- 
hattan",  as  she  was  called,  was  covered 
once  more  by  the  rushing  current.  For  a 
few  weeks  those  who  passed  over  a  prostrate 
beech  tree  which  served  as  a  footbridge  near- 
by, could  see  the  angry,  revengeful  features 
of  the  giantess  peering  up  at  them  through 
the  clear  water,  but  sand,  and  pebbles  and 
branches  of  trees  drifted  across  it,  and  were 
giving  it  a  brand  new  shroud.  With  the 
Spring  of  the  next  year,  the  face  was  en- 
tirely covered,  and  only  the  sable  outlines  of 


210  Tales  of  The 

the  breasts  were  reflected  through  the  limpid 
depths.  In  another  year  these  were  covered, 
and  with  it  went  the  last  memory  of  the 
Giantess,  to  rest  until  Destiny  sends  her  forth 
again.  The  old  men  when  they  first  saw  the 
figure  shook  their  heads  muttering  "there's 
never  going  to  be  an  end  to  the  war."  That 
was  the  direst  prediction  they  could  make. 
When  the  death  of  the  saintly  Lincoln  was 
reported  in  the  little  mountain  community, 
the  old  men  raised  their  knotted  forefingers 
and  whispered,  "see  it's  coming  true,  there's 
never  going  to  be  an  end  to  the  war  now." 
But  hostilities  did  not  break  out  afresh,  and 
the  last  Confederate  forces  surrendered  with- 
in the  next  couple  of  months.  When  the  ruin 
of  everything  didn't  happen,  the  wiseacres 
laid  it  to  the  fact  that  the  stream  having  re- 
sumed its  old  course  had  put  the  Giantess 
where  she  could  do  no  mischief.  And  how 
time  flies! 

The  floods  of  nearly  half  a  century  have 
swept  over  this  strange  figure  since  she  was 
last  seen ;  the  old  men  who  knew  her  story  are 
all  dead,  and  but  few  of  them  passed  it  on  to 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  211 

succeeding  generations.  The  essence  of  a 
living  thing  is  within,  an  inanimate  object 
without.  Death  releases  the  spirit  of  a  living 
thing ;  with  one  of  iron,  or  bronze,  or  stone,  it 
lives  from  generation  to  generation,  by  word 
of  mouth.  And  now  will  be  told  the  story  of 
the  black-flint  giantess,  as  nearly  as  it  was 
related  by  the  Indians  to  the  old  men,  and  by 
the  old  men  to  appreciative  juniors. 

Like  most  of  the  great  works  in  Central 
Pennsylvania,  that  date  back  to  Indian  times, 
the  Giantess  was  an  emanation  of  Pipsisse- 
way,  the  great  king  of  the  Susquehanahs. 
He  was  the  bravest  of  warriors,  the  joiner 
together  of  kingdoms,  the  mighty  peacemak- 
er, the  patron  of  legendary  history,  of  arts, 
of  agriculture;  the  one  rounded-out  person- 
ality in  an  otherwise  unfinished  and  undevel- 
oped period.  Unfortunately  this  humble 
chronicler  of  the  greatest  of  Pennsylvania  In- 
dians does  not  Know  his  real  name.  He  called 
him  Pipsisseway  in  several  other  stories  be- 
cause he  liked  the  sound  of  it,  because  it  had 
a  distinctive  flavor.  The  old  settlers  and  the 
few  Indians  he  knew,  spoke  of  him  as  the 


212  Tales  of  The 

"great  king  of  the  Susquehanah  Indians,"  but 
nowhere  was  the  real  name  obtainable.  But 
he  was  an  actual  man  nevertheless,  and  his 
deeds  are  a  better  immortality  than  a  high- 
sounding  name.  We  know  Shakespeare's 
name,  but  little  of  his  life;  we  know  of  this 
Indian  King's  life,  but  nothing  of  his  name. 
But  at  any  rate,  the  "great  king"  was  the  in- 
ception of  the  Giantess. 

In  his  early  youth,  probably  when  he  was 
eighteen  years  of  age,  he  had  made  a  hunting 
trip  to  the  Ohio  river,  to  chase  the  fleet  herds 
of  antelopes  in  company  with  several  other 
Indian  princes  of  about  his  own  age.  The 
chase  took  place  in  the  realm  of  a  western 
chieftain,  whose  son  was  Pipsisseway's  par- 
ticular friend.  The  young  heir  to  the  king- 
dom of  the  Susquehanahs  was  too  impres- 
sionable in  those  days  to  make  a  good  hunter. 
He  would  start  out  boldly  enough,  but  a  beau- 
tiful view,  or  sunset,  or  waterfall  would  di- 
vert his  attention  from  the  fleeing  objects. 

It  was  during  the  frenzy  of  the  hunt  that 
he  stopped  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  a 
beautiful  young  girl,  of  noble  blood,  a  rela- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  213 

tive  of  some  kind  to  the  young  prince  whom 
he  was  visiting.  She  seemed  to  him  the  most 
exquisite  object  he  had  ever  gazed  upon,  and 
it  is  a  known  fact  that  we  never  see  anyone 
more  lovely  than  those  who  charm  us  at 
eighteen.  Our  standard  of  perfection  is 
formed  then ;  heaven  help  him  who  aims  low, 
for  he  can  never  go  higher  in  the  future. 
This  Indian  beauty  was  famed  all  through 
the  valleys  that  opened  into  the  great  basin 
of  the  Mississippi.  None  could  equal  her 
charms  of  person  or  mind,  she  was  a  star  of 
the  first  magnitude.  Pipsisseway  was  ardent 
in  those  days,  and  he  wooed  and  thought  he'U 
won  this  fair  idol  of  the  west. 

He  returned  to  the  Susquehanah  coun- 
try to  tell  his  father  and  brothers  of  his  con- 
quest. Just  after  he  had  obtained  the  old 
monarch's  consent  he  heard  the  news  of  her 
marriage  to  a  young  warrior  in  the  west.  The 
blow  was  a  crushing  one  to  the  proud  spirit  of 
Pipsisseway.  He  could  have  stood  it  better  if 
it  had  been  something  hidden  away  in  his 
own  heart,  but  he  had  informed  his  family 
of  his  romance,  and  they  must  watch  him 


214  Tales  of  The 

every  day  recovering  from  it.  That  is  why 
persons  suffer  who  are  crossed  in  love,  it  is 
the  half-pitying,  curiously  interested  faces  of 
those  about  who  probe  the  wounds  deeper. 
A  wounded  animal  hides  in  a  cave,  a  wound- 
ed love  should  be  hidden  in  the  caverns  of 
our  soul.  A  trip  into  some  distant  region, 
like  the  Great  Lakes,  or  the  New  England 
coast  might  have  enabled  the  humiliated 
prince  to  escape  all  this  but  he  deemed  it  cow- 
ardly to  run  away,  and  affairs  of  state,  in 
which  he  assisted  his  father,  required  his 
presence  at  home.  Besides  he  had  observed 
that  when  persons  get  on  fire  they  invariably 
start  running,  but  the  flames  burn  no  less 
fiercely.  He  might  escape  espionage  at  the 
Great  Lakes,  but  find  his  sorrow  burning  into 
him  just  the  same. 

The  royal  lodge-houses  were  erected  where 
the  village  of  McElhattan  now  stands,  the 
one  occupied  by  the  King  of  the  Susquehan- 
ahs  stood  on  the  present  site  of  the  railroad 
station.  The  unmarried  sons,  surrounded  by 
their  retainers  lived  in  their  own  encamp- 
ments, that  of  Pipsisseway  being  where 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  215 

Youngdale  now  flourishes.  It  seems  strange 
what  attracts  village-building  to  certain  lo- 
calities, and  religiously  passes  others  by.  For 
centuries  the  Susquehanah  kings  lived  where 
stand  the  group  of  houses  at  McElhattan  sta- 
tion. When  the  Indians  retired  and  the  whites 
took  up  the  ground,  the  site  had  to  be  favored 
above  all  others. 

For  years  the  eldest  sons  of  the  Kings  lived 
on  the  site  of  Youngdale;  it  too  became  the 
choice  of  the  whites  for  a  village  and  ship- 
ping point.  The  captain  of  the  warriors,  or 
rather  the  second  in  command  to  the  king, 
usually  maintained  his  war-lodge  at  McElhat- 
tan Springs.  Though  there  has  been  no  per- 
manent settlement  there,  it  has  proved  a  pop- 
ular tenting  place  and  resort  for  the  whites. 
Man  feels  inherently  lonesome,  because  of  the 
mystery  of  life,  he  likes  to  live  where  others 
have  been  before ;  it  gives  him  a  certain  spir- 
itual sense  of  security. 

Half  a  mile  further  up  the  beautiful  stream 
now  called  McElhattan  Run,  at  the  foot  of 
the  "High  Banks"  where  there  is  an  inex- 
haustible supply  of  fire-clay,  were  situated 


216  Tales  of  The 

the  royal  pottery  works.  They  were  part  of 
the  kingly  perquisite,  and  were  superintended 
usually  by  the  rulers'  brothers.  No  one  could 
make,  or  even  buy  pottery  from  any  other 
source ;  it  was  for  generations  a  most  profit- 
able monopoly.  Some  beautiful  work  was 
turned  out,  and  had  it  been  less  perishable, 
would  have  been  the  most  attractive  souvenir 
of  the  vanished  Susquehanahs.  In  Pipsisse- 
way's  reign  it  had  attained  a  state  of  perfec- 
tion, and  bowls,  pots,  kettles  and  ornamental 
pieces  from  this  plant  were  bartered  for  as 
far  west  as  the  Missouri  River.  Susquehanah 
pottery  had  as  respected  a  name  as  Wedge- 
wood. 

A  short  distance  beyond  the  pottery  works, 
in  a  cave  dug  in  the  side  of  the  big  McElhat- 
tan  mountain,  lived  an  Indian  sculptor.  He 
had  been  captured  by  Pipsisseway's  father 
in  one  of  his  expeditions  to  the  South,  and 
put  to  doing  menial  work  around  his  lodge- 
house.  With  only  the  crudest  tools  he  had 
carved  some  figures  of  animals  out  of  soap- 
stone  and  these  had  given  the  young  Pipsisse- 
way  his  first  inclination  towards  art  and 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  217 

sculpture,  of  which  he  later  became  such  a 
conspicuous  patron.  He  had  obtained  the 
slave's  freedom,  installed  him  in  a  roomy  cave 
to  carry  on  his  work,  liberally  providing  him 
with  necessary  implements  and  materials. 
He  openly  said  he  preferred  sculpture  to  pot- 
tery making,  which  angered  the  potters  who 
had  given  the  best  years  of  their  lives  to  per- 
fecting the  plastic  art.  After  executing  nu- 
merous smaller  pieces,  the  ex-slave  was  com- 
missioned to  carve  a  huge  female  figure  out 
of  black  flint.  It  was  to  resemble  as  closely 
as  Pipsisseway's  descriptions  could  convey, 
the  beautous  but  false  Indian  maid  on  the 
banks  of  the  Ohio,  who  had  saddened  his 
young  life.  When  it  was  finished  the  young 
prince  pronounced  it  a  complete  success,  ex- 
cept that  it  looked  more  severe  and  ill-na- 
tured than  the  original.  The  sculptor  worked 
for  weeks  trying  to  soften  the  expression,  but 
of  no  avail,  he  only  made  it  more  sullen,  more 
forbidding.  Pipsisseway  was  disappointed,  as 
he  wanted  the  figure  to  wear  the  benign  and 
smiling  expression  that  had  captivated  him. 
The  old  sculptor  explained  that  if  he  could 


218  Tales  of  The 

have  seen  the  living  model  all  would  have 
been  different;  under  the  circumstances  he 
had  done  his  best. 

A  date  for  the  erection  of  the  statue  was 
get.  Pipsisseway  had  been  utilizing  a  num- 
ber of  hostages  in  building  a  pathway  from 
the  Seven  Springs  to  the  summit  of  the  upper 
or  "big"  mountain,  and  this  was  now  com- 
pleted two  thirds  of  the  distance.  The  young 
prince  was  seized  with  the  idea  of  having  the 
statue  set  up  at  that  point  which  would  make 
it  a  place  of  resort  for  his  subjects,  being 
such  a  great  artistic  wonder,  and  at  a  place 
where  the  view  was  expansive  and  ennobling. 
Before  the  figure  could  be  moved  from  the 
studio,  the  sculptor  was  waylaid  one  evening 
and  foully  beaten  to  death  by  artisans  from 
the  pottery  works.  He  had  escorted  the  prince 
who  had  been  visiting  him,  to  his  lodge  house 
and  was  returning  to  his  cave  when  set  upon 
by  these  fellows.  They  were  jealous  of  the 
attentions  he  received  from  the  prince  and 
from  the  fact  that  Pipsisseway  and  his  suite 
no  longer  visited  the  clay  works.  The  guilty 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  219 

parties  were  soon  apprehended,  flayed  alive 
and  roasted  to  death  by  slow  fires. 

The  gigantic  statue,  drawn  on  a  truck  by 
five  hundred  slaves  and  prisoners  of  war, 
was  placed  in  position  at  the  head  of  the 
mountain  path.  It  was  regarded  as  strange 
that  all  the  trees  near  the  statue  died  of 
blight  in  a  few  days,  leaving  it  in  the  centre 
of  a  patch  of  desert.  To  this  day  vegetation 
will  not  grow  there,  it  is  a  conspicuous  sight 
for  miles,  known  locally  as  the  "little  bare 
place."  The  following  Spring  all  seeds  plant- 
ed in  the  valley  refused  to  sprout,  and  a  ter- 
rible famine  was  promised. 

Ironwood,  the  old  king,  consulted  his  sooth- 
sayers and  they  said  that  this  trouble  was 
caused  by  a  curse  put  on  the  statue  by  the 
dying  potters,  and  advised  hauling  it  off  the 
mountain,  at  once  and  burying  it,  out  of  mis- 
chief, in  the  bed  of  the  creek.  Pipsisseway 
felt  badly,  but  was  an  obedient  son,  and  him- 
self superintended  the  lowering  of  his  favorite 
effigy.  Even  as  his  minions  were  diverting 
the  course  of  the  creek  to  prepare  a  proper 
burial  place,  there  descended  a  plague  of 


220  Tales  of  The 

wild  pigeons.  These  birds,  by  countless  bil- 
lions, flew  so  swift  and  in  some  places  so  low, 
that  they  beheaded  such  men,  women  and 
children  who  were  not  quick  enough  to  find 
shelter.  The  tops  of  most  of  the  trees  for 
a  space  ten  miles  in  width  were  cut  off  as 
neatly  as  if  done  by  axes.  For  three  days 
the  earth  was  inky  black  under  this  canopy 
of  the  winged  multitudes.  As  soon  as  the 
plague  subsided,  the  work  in  the  stream  was 
quickly  completed,  and  the  statue  smothered 
beneath  rock  and  gravel. 

After  that  the  affairs  of  the  kingdom 
moved  smoothly;  good  crops,  good  weather, 
good  cheer  were  the  watchwords.  In  course 
of  time  King  Ironwood  passed  away,  and  his 
eldest  son,  Pipsisseway  was  crowned  as  his 
successor.  Then  began  in  earnest  the  golden 
age  of  Indian  art  and  sculpture.  Many  co- 
lossal statues  were  constructed,  but  none 
seemed  to  have  the  innate  perfection  and  dig- 
nity of  the  disgraced  and  buried  Giantess. 
Despite  her  forbidding  countenance  and  un- 
lucky associations,  she  was  an  artistic  gem; 
it  was  a  shame  to  let  her  lie  submerged  to 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  221 

gratify  a  superstitious  idea.  Pipsisseway  or- 
dered her  dug  out  of  the  bed  of  the  creek  and 
set  up  on  the  site  of  the  home  of  the  name- 
less sculptor  who  modelled  her.  The  night 
after  she  was  in  place  came  a  cloudburst  and 
a  terrifying  flood.  The  Indian  towns  were 
washed  away,  there  was  a  heavy  loss  of  life; 
courtiers  and  soldiery  escaped  drowning  by 
climbing  the  trees.  When  it  stopped  raining 
after  the  fourth  day,  the  Susquehanna  River 
reached  from  mountain  to  mountain.  Pip- 
sisseway and  his  queen,  Meadow  Sweet,  with 
their  infant  son,  were  away  at  the  time,  or 
they  might  have  fared  badly.  When  the  wat- 
ers subsided,  a  wet,  marasmus  slime  lay  all 
over  the  fertile  plain.  Fever  broke  out  among 
the  natives,  more  dying  from  it  than  had  per- 
ished in  the  flood.  Most  of  the  courtiers  and 
royal  serving  maidens  were  stricken,  and 
Death  seemed  to  have  taken  his  permanent 
abode  in  the  kingly  circle.  Pipsisseway  had 
sent  his  queen  and  the  son  and  heir  to  his 
mountain  retreat  on  the  high  pinnacle  which 
overlooks  Quinn's  Run,  the  mountain  that  the 
sun  sets  behind  in  such  regal  splendor.  They 


222  Tales  of  The 

remained  in  good  health,  and  the  king  him- 
self seemed  to  be  able  to  ward  off  the  dread- 
ful malady.  He  boasted  of  his  vigor,  in  fact. 
Unfortunately  for  him  he  stuck  too  closely  to 
the  flood  country,  superintending  the  drain- 
age work  and  the  rebuilding  of  his  towns. 
When  everything  was  pronounced  safe,  he 
sent  for  his  family  and  celebrated  their 
homecoming  by  a  grand  review  of  his  war- 
riors on  the  plain  in  front  of  the  new  "cas- 
tle." That  night  he  complained  of  feeling 
badly.  The  medicine  men  were  summoned, 
and  pronounced  his  disease  the  dreaded 
"swamp-fever."  Pipsisseway  being  less  than 
thirty-five  years  of  age,  of  powerful  physique, 
should  have  had  no  trouble  in  recovering.  He 
had,  however,  worked  hard  during  the  twelve 
years  of  his  reign,  and  perhaps  was  what 
modern  physicians  call  "run  down."  In  any 
event  he  lost  strength  steadily,  despite  all 
that  medical  skill  could  accomplish. 

Wise  men  and  fortune-tellers  were  finally 
called  into  consultation.  They  decided  unani- 
mously that  the  rehabilitation  of  the  black 
flint  Giantess,  was  not  only  the  cause  of  the 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  223 

late  flood  but  of  the  King's  illness  as  well. 
They  recommended  that  unless  the  figure  was 
immediately  submerged  again,  the  royal  suf- 
ferer would  succumb.  Accordingly  the  mam- 
moth piece  of  sculpture  was  buried  a  second 
time,  but  with  more  dispatch  than  ceremony. 
Pipsisseway's  condition  seemed  to  improve 
slightly  after  this ;  but  only  temporarily,  his 
vitality  was  gone,  and  he  died  two  months 
afterwards.  The  wise  men  who  predicted 
their  monarch's  recovery  if  the  statue  was  re- 
buried,  were  frightfully  tortured,  but  that 
could  not  bring  back  the  departed  spirit.  But 
from  princes  to  slaves,  all  were  agreed  to 
leave  the  black  Giantess  lie  at  the  bottom  of 
McElhattan  Run. 

Over  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  passed 
away,  a  flood  opened  the  sepulchre,  and  white 
faces  peered  down  on  the  revengeful  coun- 
tenance of  the  flint  colossus !  Then  as  if  back 
to  dreamland  from  a  half-awakening,  she  re- 
turned, and  when  she  wakes  again  what  will 
be  the  change  that  greets  her  vision ! 


XIII. 


THE   FATE   OF   ATOKA 
(Story  of  Mill  Hall  Mountain) 


MONG  the  earliest  settlers  in 
the  Bald  Eagle  Mountain 
region  was  a  young  man 
namea  Constant  Iba.  He 
came  from  that  portion  of 
Lancaster  which  is  now  in- 
cluded in  the  County  of  Leb- 
anon, from  the  vicinity  of 
old  Heidelberg  or  Shaeffers- 
town.  He  was  descended  from  the  hardy 
band  of  Jewish  missionaries,  who  having 
heard  that  the  Indians  were  the  lost  tribe 
of  Israel,  penetrated  into  the  wilderness  to 
re-convert  them  to  the  old  faith. 

They  laid  the  foundations  for  their  first 
synagogue  about  1704,  nearly  a  third  of  a 
century  before  the  Germans,  Huguenots  and 
Welsh  appeared  in  the  fertile  Lebanon  val- 
leys. They  may  have  given  the  name  of  Leb- 
anon to  the  county,  and  the  seat  of  justice, 


a  I 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  225 

who  knows,  but  at  any  rate  there  are  villages 
in  Lebanon,  Lancaster  and  Berks  today  which 
possess  names  more  Jewish  than  German, 
such  as  Hummelstown,  Newmanstown,  Roth- 
ville,  Lauterbach's,  Goodhart's,  Steinsville, 
Klinesville,  Straustown  and  Shubert. 

Jewish  surnames  are  everywhere,  though 
their  bearers,  through  the  intermarriage  of 
their  ancestors  are  strong  adherents  of  the 
Lutheran  or  Reformed  congregations.  And 
their  dark,  strong,  passionate  features  may 
have  found  their  most  notable  exponents  in 
the  strain  called  the  "Black  Dutch." 

But  the  Jewish  missionaries  were  flat  fail- 
ures, the  Indians  instinctively  wanted  to 
trade  with  them  rather  than  hear  the  story 
of  Moses,  they  became  imbued  with  the  ma- 
terial possibilities  of  the  new  land,  they  scat- 
tered to  the  four  winds. 

Intermarriage  seemed  to  be  their  new 
watchword,  their  sons  and  daughters  made 
light  of  the  Jewish  tradition.  Though  Con- 
stant Iba  was  clever  like  his  race  at  barter 
and  trade,  he  was  more  of  an  artistic  nature 
than  his  generation  generally  produced. 


Tales  of  The 


That  was  inherited  from  his  father  who  was 
the  Cantor  of  the  congregation.  He  composed 
many  touching  chants  on  the  long  sea  jour- 
ney to  Pennsylvania,  hymns  that  everyone 
from  the  Captain  of  the  ship  to  the  young 
Rabbi  overseer  predicted  would  bring  the 
stolidest  redskin  to  the  verge  of  conversion. 
The  Cantor  was  speedily  discouraged,  and 
tried  farming  with  better  success.  There 
were  not  enough  Jewish  girls  to  go  'round,  so 
he  wandered  down  to  the  lower  reaches  of  the 
Schuylkill  and  wooed  and  wed  a  Swedish 
maid.  The  son,  Constant,  looked  more  like 
his  mother  than  his  father,  but  he  had  the 
dreamy,  artistic  spirit  of  the  Semitic  parent. 
Like  some  artistic  souls  must,  he  was  disap- 
pointed in  love. 

The  story  that  the  Jews  were  supposed  to 
be  different  and  inferior  to  other  folks  was  a 
new  notion  that  was  brought  into  the  seclud- 
ed valleys  by  the  German  immigrants.  How 
this  could  be  was  not  explained  but  it  was  ex- 
pounded as  gospel  fact.  Consequently  when 
Constant,  handsomer  and  brighter  than  the 
other  lads  of  the  neighborhood,  paid  court 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  227 

to  a  pretty  German  girl,  the  stern  father 
said  to  him  one  night,  "I  hear  you  are  not 
a  good  Christian,  I  want  my  daughters  to 
marry  good  Christians,  I  don't  want  anybody 
else  coming  to  see  them."  As  the  girl  re- 
mained silent  throughout,  Constant  never 
went  to  see  her  again. 

A  month  later  he  struck  out  for  the  wilder- 
ness above  Shamokin.  Either  he  nursed  a 
deep  hurt  or  wanted  to  feed  his  artistic  incli- 
nations; at  any  rate  he  selected  about  as  re- 
tired a  spot  as  could  be  possibly  located.  He 
erected  his  one-roomed  log-cabin  a  mile  west 
of  the  present  town  of  Mill  Hall,  in  a  gully 
near  a  good  spring,  at  the  foot  of  the  moun- 
tain. There  was  no  view,  very  little  breeze, 
and  the  land  nearby  was  so  rocky  that  it  has 
never  been  cleared  to  this  day.  Here  the 
young  man  settled  down  to  lead  the  life  of  a 
hunter  and  trapper.  The  ground  about  him 
being  so  poor  he  cleared  a  small  garden  patch 
along  the  banks  of  the  Bald  Eagle  Creek,  and 
there  he  went  daily  to  work  while  the  weath- 
er was  good.  He  set  out  some  grape  vines, 
and  old  settlers  remembered  his  as  the  first 


Tales  of  The 


vineyard  in  the  neighborhood.  He  may  have 
inherited  this  taste  from  his  ancestors  in 
Asia  Minor.  He  had  no  sheep  nor  goats, 
however,  but  at  one  time  a  string  of  sixty- 
five  wolf  hides  sunning  near  his  cabin,  showed 
how  futile  it  would  have  been  to  emulate  the 
herdsmen  of  old. 

If  he  cherished  a  grievance  of  any  kind  it 
was  deep  buried  in  his  heart,  for  he  made  a 
most  cheerful  companion.  Hunters,  red  and 
white  liked  to  get  him  to  join  their  parties 
and  his  happy  demeanor  and  uniform  cour- 
tesy put  added  zest  into  the  chase.  Most  of  the 
hunters  were  very  young  men — they  were  the 
"old  hunters"  with  the  prolific  reminiscences 
of  the  next  generation;  they  truly  enjoyed 
life  to  its  fullest  extent.  The  word  "old  hunt- 
er" is  a  misnomer,  all  the  great  hunting  is 
done  by  men  when  they  are  young.  Hunting 
was  a  stern  necessity  but  that  generation  of 
nimrods  made  it  also  a  perpetual  lark. 

During  the  spring  and  summer  months 
practically  all  the  white  hunters  went  to  their 
homes  "down  country,"  as  permanent  settle- 
ments had  hardly  begun  to  any  extent,  and 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains 


during  this  period  the  Indians  were  Con- 
stant's companions.  They  thought  so  much 
of  him,  he  might  have  converted  them  all  to 
Judaism,  but  he  cared  little  for  the  old  faith, 
or  any  faith,  for  that  matter.  "There  must 
be  a  Good  Man  who  rules  us,  He  gives  us  all 
a  fair  show",  was  the  only  religious  comment 
he  was  ever  known  to  utt^r. 

Solitude  developed  rather  than  retarded  the 
growth  of  his  personality  and  by  the  time 
he  was  eight  and  twenty  there  was  a  beau- 
tiful light  in  his  soft  grey  eyes,  the  token  of 
a  developed  and  well-finished  individuality. 
He  had  good  looks,  courage  and  honesty.  He 
had  never  found  the  necessity  to  tell  a  lie; 
with  such  attributes  he  was  "master  of  his 
fate".  Sometimes  as  he  sat  before  his  cabin 
door  on  calm  summer  afternoons  in  the  "gold- 
en hour,"  with  the  forest  silent  save  when  in- 
terrupted by  the  "bang,  bang,  bang"  of  the 
pileated  woodpecker  breaking  through  the 
bark  of  a  hemlock  tree  to  extract  the  injuri- 
ous beetles,  he  would  think  over  his  lot,  and 
consider  it  a  just  one.  "If  I  had  a  wife", 
he  would  reason,  "I  would  have  to  leave  this 


230  Tales  of  The 

life;  after  ten  years  of  it,  I  am  fitted  for 
nothing  else,  !  could  not  make  her  comfort- 
able in  a  town,  nor  here.  I  am  well  off  as  I 
am." 

Then  the  giant  woodpecker  would  answer 
with  his  loud  "bang,  bang,  bang"  as  if  in  affir- 
mation. Then  he  would  laugh  to  himself, 
"that  bird  knows  me  by  heart,  I  wouldn't 
shoot  him  for  that  reason."  Constant  loved 
birds,  and  even  the  animals — he  could  not  kill 
a  deer,  and  even  hesitated  over  a  buffalo. 
The  Indians  would  say  to  him  when  they 
started  on  their  expeditions  "we  will  kill  the 
elks,  buffaloes  and  deer,  you  can  slay  the  pan- 
thers, wolves  and  bears." 

He  once  had  a  peculiar  experience  with  a 
bear.  One  evening  he  heard  a  cough,  strange- 
ly human,  outside  his  cabin,  and  lighting  his 
rushlight  went  out  to  investigate.  He  found 
a  huge  bear,  sitting  on  his  haunches,  with  a 
bullet  wound  in  the  region  of  the  lungs,  vain- 
ly trying  to  cough  up  the  lead.  Being  fear- 
less, he  stroked  bruin's  head,  and  the  animal 
became  docile.  There  were  no  "wild  ani- 
mals" in  those  days.  It  took  a  hundred  years 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  23 1 

of  dogs,  repeating  rifles,  poisons  and  traps 
to  make  them  wild  in  this  country.  He  gave 
the  beast  a  large  dose  of  snuff  and  red  pep- 
per, it  sneezed  and  retched  violently,  and 
although  the  bullet  did  not  appear  it  lodged 
more  comfortably,  and  the  bear  suffered  no 
longer.  The  grateful  animal  lingered  around 
the  cabin  for  days,  until  an  Indian's  dog  ap- 
peared and  it  took  the  cue  to  drop  out  of  sight. 
A  couple  of  years  after  this  episode,  he 
always  said  that  it  was  in  November,  1758, 
he  was  cooking  some  supper  in  the  big  open 
fireplace  when  he  heard  a  sound  like  a  cough 
outside.  It  wasn't  quite  the  same  as  the  bear's, 
but  he.  laughed  to  himself,  "that  bear's  back 
again  with  another  bullet,  as  sure  as  any- 
tning,  he  can't  cough  as  loud  because  he's 
older ;  he'll  have  to  wait  until  I'm  ready  to  gp 
out  and  doctor  him."  He  heard  the  cough 
again  a  couple  of  times;  he  listened  more  in- 
tently, he  concluded  it  came  from  a  human 
being.  He  opened  the  door  and  looked  out, 
but  saw  no  one.  There  had  been  a  skiff  of 
snow  the  night  before.  The  day's  sunlight 
had  not  served  to  melt  it  all,  and  cold  dark- 


232  Tales  of  The 

ness  was  settling  in.  He  heard  the  coug'i 
again,  it  was  not  more  than  fifty  feet  away  in 
a  cedar  thicket.  Hurrying  to  the  spot,  he  be- 
held a  beautiful,  but  very  pallid  young  girl 
sitting  on  a  moss-covered  hemlock  log,  hold- 
ing her  body  erect  with  her  hands,  and  oh,  so 
sick,  weak,  and  dejected  looking.  As  she  saw 
him  she  opened  her  large  grey  eyes  in  sur- 
prise, tried  to  speak,  but  could  only  cough. 
Dressed  in  a  badly  soiled  costume  of  buck- 
skin, trimmed  with  beads,  with  a  fisher's  skin 
for  a  collar,  and  the  skirt  badly  ripped  from  a 
long  tramp  in  the  forest,  she  might  have 
passed  for  an  Indian  girl,  but  for  her  dun- 
colored  hair,  light  eyes,  and  rather  fair  com- 
plexion. Constant  was  trying  to  think  of 
something  to  say  to  her,  but  before  he  could 
do  so,  her  arms  gave  way  and  she  fell  for- 
ward in  a  swoon. 

The  young  man  picked  up  the  precious 
burden  and  carried  her  to  his  cabin,  and  laid 
her  on  his  comfortable  couch  among  the  buf- 
falo hides.  Then  he  poured  a  drink  of  rum 
down  her  throat  to  revive  her.  He  no- 
ticed that  the  soles  of  her  moccasins  were 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  233 

worn  through  in  places,  and  her  pretty  feet 
were  rough  from  the  uneven  ground.  She 
wore  a  frayed  pair  of  military  leggings,  prob- 
ably a  gift  from  some  white  man.  He  took  a 
couple  of  warm  stones  from  the  back  of  the 
fireplace,  and  put  them  at  her  feet,  which 
seemed  to  "bring  her  to"  more  than  anything 
else.  He  rubbed  her  white  hands  and  gradu- 
ally consciousness  returned.  She  seemed 
thankful  to  be  in  such  comfortable  surround- 
ings, but  no  word  escaped  her  lips  as  to  where 
she  had  come  from,  and  Constant,  consider- 
ing himself  favored  to  have  such  a  visitor  was 
careful  not  to  ask.  Maybe  she  had  dropped 
from  the  clouds,  then  it  would  have  been 
sacrilege  to  inquire!  She  did  not  sleep  well 
that  night,  but  tossed  about,  moaning  and 
coughing  intermittently.  The  young  trapper 
knew  a  thing  or  two  about  the  ancient  reme- 
dies and  brewed  some  Blue  Mountain  tea, 
but  it  did  not  relieve  her  cough  very  much. 

The  next  day  she  was  quite  weak  and  sev- 
eral times  he  thought  she  would  turn  into  a 
fair  spirit  on  his  hands.  But  he  was  a  care- 
ful nurse,  it  was  a  labor  of  love,  and  he  kept 


234  Tales  of  The 

her  alive  by  the  sheer  persistence  of  his  at- 
tentions. He  violated  his  scruples  and  shot 
a  young  deer,  and  some  grouse  and  quail  that 
she  might  have  delicacies.  At  the  end  of  ten 
days  she  began  to  improve,  and  evidently 
liking  her  physician,  told  a  few  things  about 
herself.  At  least  she  told  her  name,  and 
where  she  came  from. 

She  was  none  other  than  Atoka  Strahan, 
the  beautiful  half-breed  girl,  and  foster 
daughter  of  the  old  Mingo  chief,  Arrow- 
Wood, — whose  stronghold  was  high  up  in  the 
Sugar  Valley  Mountains.  Constant  had  often 
heard  of  her,  what  a  prize  to  have  come  to 
him,  when  every  white  pioneer  and  all  the 
Indians  of  rank  who  saw  her  aspired  to 
her  favor.  She  seemed  so  satisfied  in  Con- 
stant's cabin,  that  he  began  to  lose  all  fear 
she  would  want  to  return  homeward.  Wheth- 
er she  would  have  or  not  was  settled  by  Des- 
tiny, which  sent,  when  she  was  well  enough 
to  move  about,  a  blizzard  of  unprecedented 
ferocity  and  duration. 

The  cabin,  situated  as  it  was  in  a  gully, 
was  buried  to  its  roof — the  inmates  would 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  235 

have  smothered  had  it  not  been  for  the  gener- 
ous stone  chimney.  Atoka  made  no  attempt 
to  go  now,  she  was  storm  bound  until  Spring. 
Her  manners  were  easy  and  gentle  and  there 
was  a  charming  frankness  to  her  voice,  ail 
of  which  added  to  the  irresistibility  of  her 
physical  beauty.  Any  man  who  saw  her  half 
a  mile  off  would  have  loved  her,  let  alone 
being  stormbound  with  her  in  a  lonely  cabin. 
Constant  had  a  hunting  dog  before  the 
snow  began,  but  he  never  found  out  if  the 
poor  animal  was  buried  in  it,  or  escaped  be- 
fore it  was  too  late.  So  they  were  the  only 
two  living  things  about.  Luckily  there  were 
plenty  of  provisions  in  the  cabin,  and  a  path 
was  dug  to  the  woodpile,  so  they  neither 
wanted  for  food  nor  fuel.  Every  time  the 
snow  melted  a  little  and  Constant  feared  his 
fair  captive  might  grow  restless,  a  fresh  bliz- 
zard ensued,  and  her  stay  was  reinforced.  It 
seemed  to  him  the  Snow  God  favored  his  suit, 
that  it  knew  from  his  first  glimpse  of  her 
that  he  loved  Atoka.  He  could  not  compare 
it  with  that  weak  attachment  for  the  Ger- 
man girl  on  the  Swatara,  this  was  greater, 


236  Tales  of  The 

grander,  permanent.  He  was  glad  he  wasn't 
a  Christian  for  if  he  was  he  might  have  mar- 
ried the  German  girl,  and  never  have  been 
stormbound  with  Atoka. 

This  half-breed  girl  could  speak  German, 
although  her  father  had  been  a  Scotchman 
and  her  mother  a  Lenni  Lenape,  whose  sec- 
ond husband  was  Chief  Arrow-Wood.  She 
had  picked  up  the  German  she  said,  in  her 
early  childhood  in  Lancaster  county,  and 
it  formed  the  medium  of  conversation  be- 
tween her  and  her  new  protector.  She 
seemed  so  gracious,  almost  affectionate,  in 
her  attitude  toward  him,  that  once  after  they 
had  been  stormbound  for  a  month,  he  made 
bold  to  tell  her  that  he  loved  her.  She  was 
sitting  on  the  bed  propped  up  against  the 
wall,  with  one  hand  behind  her  head;  he 
never  forgot  how  she  looked.  It  was  a  long 
while  before  she  answered  him.  "I  am 
very  sorry,  Constant",  she  said,  "no  man 
ever  treated  me  as  you  have,  or  could, 
but  I  cannot  love  you,  I  am  pledged  to  an- 
other." The  young  man  said  no  more,  but 
wondered  why  she  seemed  content  to  linger 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  2H7 

so  long  with  him,  if  her  heart  belonged  to 
some  other  man.  But  he  accepted  things  as 
they  came  and  their  relations  continued  as 
genial  as  ever. 

As  the  days  wore  on  he  was  considerably 
worried  about  her  cough;  his  remedies  had 
ceased  to  be  efficacious,  and  he  could  get  no 
others.  Once  she  had  a  slight  hemorrhage 
which  increased  his  fears.  While  recovering 
from  this,  but  evidently  believing  she  was 
going  to  die,  she  told  him  her  love  story. 

At  Fort  Augusta,  where  she  had  gone  with 
her  mother  to  sell  beads  and  feathers  and 
blankets,  outside  the  palisade,  she  had  met 
Captain  Morgan  Evan  Morgan,  a  handsome 
young  officer  of  the  British  colonial  forces. 
They  had  loved  each  other  from  the  start 
and  later  when  he  had  been  sent  to  a  fort 
near  the  mouth  of  Tiadaghton,  he  had  dis- 
guised himself  as  an  Indian  (Arrow  Wood 
was  hostile  to  the  British)  and  come  across 
to  see  her  at  her  father's  fortress  high  up 
in  the  elbow  of  Bull  Run  Gap.  He  had  prom- 
ised to  return  one  week  from  that  night,  but 
he  never  did — she  could  not  hear  tell  of  him 


238  Tales  of  The 

again, — especially  as  the  English  soon  after 
evacuated  the  fort.  She  had  watched  and 
waited,  but  in  vain,  for  over  a  year,  and  one 
day  feeling  particularly  despondent  started 
for  the  Susquehanna,  to  try  and  investigate 
for  herself  among  the  trappers  who  ranged 
up  and  down  the  river.  She  had  become  cold 
and  tired;  how  she  got  as  far  West  as  Mill 
Hall  Mountain,  she  knew  not,  nor  how  long 
she  had  been  travelling  when  Constant  found 
her.  She  knew  she  loved  Captain  Morgan, 
there  must  be  some  good  reason  why  he  did 
not  return,  she  could  love  no  one  else.  She 
wound  up  this  confession  with  a  flood  of 
tears  which  set  her  to  coughing  frightfully. 
If  she  hadn't  begun  to  cough,  Constant  might 
have  told  her  something,  but  he  hadn't  the 
heart,  even  though  it  might  have  helped  his 
case.  At  the  mention  of  the  name  of  Morgan 
he  was  illuminated. 

The  young  captain,  disguised  as  an  In- 
dian, was  mistaken  for  a  spy,  by  his  own 
men,  and  killed  by  them — it  was  probably 
the  very  day  after  he  visited  Atoka.  He  was 
heralded  far  and  wide  as  "Morgan  the  Spy" 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  239 

— many  had  doubted  his  duplicity  and  Con- 
stant vowed  to  himself  he'd  set  the  poor  fel- 
low's memory  straight  if  he  lived  until 
Spring.  But  he  feared  to  tell  the  delicate 
girl  that  her  lover  was  dead.  With  the  grad- 
ual lessening  of  the  severity  of  winter,  her 
health  did  not  improve,  as  he  had  hoped.  She 
had  several  more  serious  hemorrhages,  which 
left  her  weaker  and  more  pallid.  Every  day 
she  told  Constant  how  much  she  owed  to  him, 
and  once  she  took  him  in  her  arms  as  he 
leaned  over  the  bed  saying,  "let  me  kiss  you 
for  your  goodness  to  me."  But  it  was  not  a 
kiss  of  love. 

One  rainy  night  while  she  slept  a  strange 
looking  bird  fell  down  the  chimney  and  flop- 
ped about  the  stone  floor,  wet  and  broken- 
winged.  Filled  with  horror,  Constant  opened 
the  door  and  kicked  it  out  into  the  darkness. 
Then  he  sank  down  on  his  easy  chair  of  buf- 
falo hides  exclaiming  to  himself,  "something's 
going  to  happen,  the  worst's  to  happen,  a  bird 
in  the  house  is  our  family  token  of  death." 

The  next  morning  brought  sunshine,  for 
the  first  time  in  weeks  and  Atoka  seemed 


240  Tales  of  The 

stronger  and  brighter  and  more  tender.  She 
even  insisted  helping  him  cook  the  dinner  and 
supper.  After  the  evening  meal  when  she 
was  putting  the  wooden  dishes  on  the  impro- 
vised dresser,  there  was  a  "bang,  bang,  bang" 
outside  like  the  triphammer  bill  of  the  pileat- 
ed  woodpecker,  breaking  through  the  bark  of 
some  hemlock  tree.  "That's  unseemly",  she 
said,  "for  that  bird  to  get  busy  as  early  as  the 
fourteenth  of  March."  She  had  scarcely  ut- 
tered these  words  when  she  was  seized  with 
a  violent  hemorrhage  and  would  have  fallen 
to  the  floor  had  not  Constant  caught  her. 
Tenderly  carrying  her  to  the  couch  he  laid 
her  down  among  the  robes.  She  soon  pulled 
herself  together  and  wanted  to  sit  up.  She 
was  ghastly,  yellow  pale,  about  the  hue  of  her 
dun-colored  hair,  but  her  unearthly  complex- 
ion made  her  more  beautiful  than  words  can 
describe,  so  he  always  said.  He  had  sat  be- 
side her  on  the  bed  and  held  both  her  beauti- 
ful cold  hands  in  his.  They  were  rather  large 
hands  as  were  her  feet,  but  shapely  and  dex- 
trous; she  had  been  noted  for  her  basket 
making.  She  raised  her  head  and  laid  it  on 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  241 

his  shoulder,  saying  "I  want  to  tell  you  some- 
thing." He  put  his  cheek  against  hers,  while 
she  whispered  "I  love  you  more  than  I  ever 
loved  Morgan,  lots  and  lots  more,  it  only  came 
to  me  recently,  and  I  hated  to  tell  you  because 
I  feared  you'd  think  me  changeable,  but  it's 
true,  it's  too  great  a  thing  to  keep,  I'll  love 
you  forever."  He  was  so  thrilled  by  what 
she  was  saying  he  had  not  noticed  that  her 
beautiful  cold  hands  were  the  temperature  of 
ice,  and  her  loving  stare  was  glazed  and  rigid. 
With  the  last  word  her  lower  jaw  dropped, 
her  head  fell  to  one  side,  Atoka  was  no  more. 

Kissing  again  and  again  the  dead  clay-like 
lips  he  had  never  touched  in  life,  Constant 
laid  the  beautiful  image  out  full  length  and 
spent  the  night  resting  beside  her,  never 
sleeping,  but  watching,  admiring,  worship- 
ping the  deserted  tenement  that  had  held  her 
rare  spirit.  A  few  days  later  he  buried  her 
by  the  old  rotting  hemlock  where  he  had  first 
met  her. 

He  never  moved  from  his  cabin  at  the  foot 
of  the  Mill  Hall  Mountain;  settlers  came  in 
by  droves,  game  became  scarcer,  most  of  the 


242 


Tales  of  The  Bald  Eagle  Mountains 


old  hunters  he  knew  moved  further  west.  But 
Constant  Iba  remained  close  to  the  grave  of 
Atoka. 


XII. 

MARY    GOES    OVER    THE    MOUNTAIN 
(Story  of  Castanea  Mountain) 


ARY  would  go  over  the  moun- 
tain on  that  particular  even- 
ing. Her  best  friend,  or  as 
she  called  her,  her  "compan- 
ion girl"  Dolly  Hope,  now 
Dolly  Snyder,  had  become 
the  mother  of  twins  in  her 
cabin  on  the  Nittany  side 
of  the  mountain  and  Mary 
must  visit  her.  Mary  was  only  sixteen,  but 
a  strong  well-developed  girl  for  her  age,  and 
Dolly,  who  had  been  destined  for  a  stirring 
history,  was  but  a  couple  of  years  older. 
Mary,  who  was  a  daughter  of  old  Patt  Gillas- 
py,  the  Indian  fighter,  lived  with  her  parents 
in  their  comfortable  cabin  by  the  creek. 
Above  them  loomed  the  "dark  and  sombre 
ridge"  of  the  Bald  Eagle  Mountain,  inscruta- 
ble and  silent,  hiding  the  mystery  and  rage 


243 


244  Tales  of  The 

and  rancor  of  the  Indian  hordes  v/ho  ranged 
behind  it. 

The  Gillaspys  had  only  recently  moved  "up 
country,"  having  abandoned  a  well-cleared 
farm  in  Buffalo  Valley  because  the  old  fighter 
thought  the  country  there  was  much  too  slow. 
His  wife  and  older  children  protested,  but 
Mary,  who  was  born  too  late  to  have  partici- 
pated in  Indian  carnage  at  the  old  home,  was 
eager  to  move  into  a  land  of  adventure.  "Sure 
she's  more  like  myself  than  any  of  the  boys", 
was  Patt's  way  of  expressing  his  approval  at 
the  position  she  assumed.  But  despite  high 
hopes,  the  Indians  refused  to  molest  the  Gil- 
laspy  family,  there  was  absolutely  no  provo- 
cation to  shoot  one  down  and  the  old  man 
secretly  wished  himself  back  at  his  comfort- 
able farmstead  near  Derrstown.  "Some 
day",  said  Mary,  "we'll  get  all  we  are  looking 
for." 

What  kind  of  Irishmen  were  these 
old  Indian  fighters  anyway,  with  such 
names  as  Brady,  Sweeny,  McLaughlin, 
Dougherty,  Callahan,  McKeehan,  Costikan 
and  Gillaspy;  they  were  clearly  not  Scotch- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  245 

Irishmen,  but  if  they  came  of  Catholic  stock, 
what  became  of  their  Catholicism  ?  Old  Patt 
Gillaspy  once  was  seen  inside  a  Lutheran 
Church  in  Dry  Valley  at  some  special  services, 
but  that  was  the  only  time  it  could  be  "laid 
against  him."  He  was  a  brave  fighter,  but 
could  do  more  harm  than  good  in  time  of 
peace  as  he  loved  dearly  to  provoke  the  red- 
men's  ire. 

It  took  fully  a  year  before  he  could  pick  a 
fight  with  some  Indians.  They  were  continu- 
ally passing  up  and  down  the  creek,  the  path 
led  not  fifty  feet  from  his  cabin,  yet  they  re- 
fused to  stop,  refused  to  become  embroiled, 
even  when  his  savage  cur  Links,  snarled  and 
bit  at  their  heels. 

Sometimes  when  the  old  man,  with  his  long 
rifle  across  his  shoulder  was  coming  from 
tiie  landing  where  he  kept  his  canoes  and 
would  cross  the  path  directly  in  front  of  a 
file  of  passing  savages,  he  whispered  under 
his  breath  remarks  detrimental  to  the  Indian 
valor  and  morals.  The  tall  aborigines  mere- 
ly looked  angry,  their  beady  eyes  would  flash, 


246  Tales  of  The 

but  further  than  that  they  made  no  move, 
always  to  old  Patt's  discomfiture. 

One  night,  however,  the  chance  came,  and 
there  was  almost  bloodshed.  A  party  of  eight 
Indians,  six  men  and  two  women  camped 
near  the  landing,  without  asking  Patt's  per- 
mission. He  would  have  refused,  so  it  is  just 
as  well  they  didn't.  He  did  not  know  they 
were  there  until  he  noticed  the  red  glow  of 
the  camp  fire  through  the  tall  white-pines 
which  lined  the  water's  edge. 

The  old  man  was  in  a  fury.  Seizing  his 
trusty  rifle,  he  declared  he'd  drive  "the  damn- 
ed Indians  away  or  kill  them  in  doing  it." 
In  reality  he  had  some  provocation.  His  rye 
field  was  only  a  short  distance  from  the  fire, 
a  spark  might  ignite  it  at  any  minute. 

Mrs.  Gillaspy  understood  her  husband's 
fiery  disposition  and  intense  antipathy  to  In- 
dians, and  dreaded  his  visit  to  the  encamp- 
ment. She  had  visions  of  an  episode,  like  was 
performed  later  by  a  certain  Frederick 
Stump,  when  this  worthy  frontiersman  owing 
to  trouble  between  some  Indians  and  his 
nephew's  wife,  killed  the  four  offending  war- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  247 

riors  with  six  Indian  women  and  girls  for 
good  measure. 

As  luck  would  have  it,  all  the  Gillaspy  boys 
were  away  from  home  the  night  in  question, 
the  older  girls  were  afraid  to  go,  so  it  de- 
volved on  Mary  to  accompany  the  old  man  to 
the  landing  to  "keep  him  straight."  The 
combined  strength  of  the  household  could  not 
prevent  him  from  loading  his  rifle,  and  slip- 
ping his  scalping  knife  in  his  belt,  but  Mary, 
"his  girl",  as  he  called  her,  might  keep  him 
from  turning  the  front  lawn  into  a  slaughter 
house.  The  Indians  were  seated  in  a  circle 
around  the  blaze  of  rich-pine,  which  must 
have  thrown  their  massive  faces  and  fancy 
costumes  into  bold  relief,  like  one  of  Blake- 
lock's  paintings.  Near  them  was  a  small  pile 
of  early  roasting  ears  and  melons,  which  they 
had  probably  filched  from  some  farm  further 
up  the  creek.  In  a  bucket,  scooped  from  a 
block  of  basswood  one  of  the  squaws  was 
stirring  some  beverage;  evidently  a  high  old 
time  was  soon  to  begin.  The  sight  of  so 
many  Indians  in  a  happy  frame  of  mind  fur- 
thered the  choler  of  the  old  man.  Sighting 


248  Tales  of  The 

his  rifle  at  them,  he  approached  near,  and 
gruffly  ordered  them  away.  Pointing  to  the 
fire,  he  commanded  them  to  put  it  out,  but 
as  they  were  too  surprised  to  act  quickly, 
he  seized  the  bucket  of  brew,  and  threw  it 
into  the  blaze.  There  was  a  splutter,  and 
lots  of  blue  smoke,  for  there  was  something 
spirituous  in  the  decoction,  but  the  fire  kept 
on  burning.  Kicking  it  with  his  boots,  the 
old  man  separated  the  embers,  calling  the  In- 
dians all  kinds  of  names,  as  he  worked.  He 
had  forgotten  the  rifle,  and  the  hot  fire  ignit- 
ed it,  or  else  he  hit  it  against  something;  at 
any  rate,  it  exploded,  a  bullet  barely  grazing 
a  squaw's  cheek. 

But  the  Indians,  all  except  one  big  brave, 
who  was  younger  than  the  rest,  maintained 
their  composure,  and  let  the  old  pioneer  hava 
his  way.  When  the  rifle  exploded  the  old  man 
dropped  it  on  the  head  of  this  young  fellow, 
who  it  was  afterwards  learned  was  well 
known  by  the  name  of  Billy  Frozen  Stone. 

The  young  Indian  sprang  to  his  feet,  curs- 
ing in  English  and  hit  the  old  man  a  sting- 
ing blow  across  the  mouth  with  his  open  hand, 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  249 

felling  him  to  the  ground.  Patt  yelled  with 
pain,  and  would  have  stabbed  the  redman, 
but  for  his  helpless  position.  Two  of  the 
older  Indians,  fearing  they  might  stir  a  hor- 
nets' nest  if  they  hurt  a  member  of  the  domi- 
nant Irish  race,  lifted  Patt  to  his  feet,  and 
apologized  profusely  for  the  incident. 

The  young  Indian  shink  out  of  sight,  but 
not  before  casting  a  few  sharp  glances  at 
Mary,  who  was  witnessing  the  scene  from  a 
respectful  distance.  The  others  considerably 
cowed  gathered  together  their  pots  and  bas- 
kets and  started  in  single  file  down  the  creek. 
By  the  light  of  the  dying  embers  the  old  man 
gathered  up  the  roasting  ears  and  melons  left 
behind  and  took  them  to  his  house.  These 
were  to  be  a  slight  balm  for  his  bursted  rifle. 

The  family  breathed  easier  when  they  saw 
the  door  opened  and  Mary  with  the  old  man 
leaning  on  her  shoulder,  but  minus  his  rifle, 
come  in.  He  looked  pretty  seedy  after  his 
knock  down  and  was  covered  with  ashes  and 
mud.  But  he  clung  tenaciously  to  the  roast- 
ing ears  and  melons.  "We'll  eat  these  to- 
morrow", he  repeated  over  and  over  again. 


250  Tales  of  The 

Next  day  he  got  up  feeling  all  right  and 
walked  to  his  nearest  neighbors  to  tell  them 
how  he  had  been  attacked  and  ill  treated  by 
wandering  Indians. 

The  report  spread  throughout  the  neigh- 
boring settlements  and  threats  were  made 
to  shoot  the  next  Indians  that  appeared.  This 
came  to  the  ears  of  the  unfortunate  partici- 
pants in  the  unpleasantness,  who  had  located 
themselves  in  Castanea  Gap,  about  where  the 
reservoir  is  now.  There  were  extensive  beav- 
er dams  in  the  creek,  and  they  had  resolved 
to  catch  a  few  of  these  valuable  animals.  They 
knew  that  the  complaints  might  result  in  a 
hot-headed  band  swooping  down  on  their 
camp  some  night  and  butchering  them  all. 
The  two  eldest  Indians  started  out  to  make 
a  personal  visit  to  the  cabins  of  the  leading 
settlers  to  apologize  and  explain.  They  only 
made  matters  worse  by  this,  for  when  they 
admitted  that  they  were  trapping  beavers 
in  the  gap,  it  infuriated  everyone,  especially 
the  younger  pioneers.  "What  right  have  In- 
dians to  trap  those  beavers?"  was  the  con- 
stant rallying  cry.  "It's  too  early  in  the  sea- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  251 

son,  their  hides  aren't  very  good,  we  wanted 
those  hides  ourselves." 

But  at  first  no  active  measures  were  taken 
to  stop  them,  as  the  white  men  were  too  busy 
with  their  crops  to  kill  a  few  Indians.  Jacob 
McCarty,  a  level-headed  young  man  was  dep- 
utized to  give  the  redmen  the  hint  that  it 
would  be  best  for  them  to  quit  trapping  and 
leave  the  neighborhood.  If  they  refused,  it 
was  understood,  they  would  have  to  pay  the 
extreme  penalty,  "after  the  crops  were  in." 
McCarty  was  a  born  diplomatist,  and  deliv- 
ered the  warning  with  courtesy  and  tact. 
The  Indians  said  they  were  only  too  glad  to 
cease  trapping  and  move  away,  but  asked  per- 
mission to  finish  drying  their  "summer 
skins",  as  they  called  the  beaver  hides  they 
had  taken.  They  had  killed,  all  told,  thirty- 
nine  beavers.  McCarty  told  them  there  would 
be  no  objection  to  this,  and  matters  were  left 
that  way. 

There  were  a  few  settlers  in  Nittany  Val- 
ley, among  them  Dietrich  Snyder,  a  young 
veteran  of  the  warfare  in  the  Blue  Mountain 
country,  but  they  all  shunned  the  pathway 


252  Tales  of  The 

through  the  Gap  since  the  Indians  tented 
there.  There  was  another  path  into  Nittany, 
very  steep  and  rocky,  which  led  up  the  face 
of  the  Bald  Eagle  Mountain,  and  had  its  be- 
ginning not  far  from  where  the  infirmary 
now  stands.  It  led  through  a  forest  of  white 
pines  and  white  hemlocks,  and  was  as  black 
in  daylight  as  at  night.  There  were  six 
copious  springs  between  the  beginning  of  the 
path  and  the  summit  of  the  mountain.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  believe  that  now,  as  since 
the  timber  has  gone,  the  water  courses  have 
dried  out,  and  the  face  of  the  mountain  is  as 
parched  and  arid  as  an  alkali  plain. 

In  those  days  it  was  different;  in  addition 
to  the  darkness,  the  path  was  infested  with 
animals,  every  spring  had  a  full  quota,  and 
it  seemed  like  passing  through  a  zoological 
garden  to  follow  it. 

Travellers  with  more  ammunition  and  time 
than  business  used  to  try  and  count  how  many 
animals  they  could  kill  along  the  way.  Jas- 
per Gillaspyx  Mary's  oldest  brother,  held  the 
record  for  a  long  time  with  seventy-one  kills, 




Bald  Eagle  Mountains  253 


which  included  three  bears,  five  wolves,  two 
wolverines  and  a  fisher. 

When  Mary  Gillaspy  heard  that  the  stork 
had  visited  her  "companion  girl"  there  was 
nothing  else  in  her  mind  but  to  visit  the  val- 
ley; her  father  and  brothers  warned  her  not 
to  attempt  to  go  through  the  gap;  the  In- 
dians they  thought  were  gone,  but  there 
might  be  one  or  two  lurking  about.  The 
path  up  the  mountain  was  less  dangerous ;  if 
she  would  wait  until  tomorrow  they  would 
accompany  her,  but  Mary  stamped  her  foot 
and  said  she  was  going  now.  There  was 
no  stopping  her,  for  at  sixteen  she  was  al- 
ready mistress  of  every  one  in  the  house 
except  her  mother.  In  most  every  household 
each  member  has  his  or  her  particular  ty- 
rant, Mary's  mother  took  an  especial  delight 
in  trying  to  thwart  everything  she  wanted 
to  do.  She  stormed  and  fumed  against 
Mary's  proposed  trip  across  the  mountain, 
but  the  girl  had  now  reached  a  size  where 
she  could  hardly  be  restrained  by  main  force, 
unless  her  father  or  sisters  cooperated.  But 
while  they  feared  the  dangers  of  the  moun- 


254  Tales  of  The 

tain  road,  and  sought  to  gently  discourage 
her  by  refusing  to  accompany  her,  they  of- 
fered no  violent  opposition. 

Mary  went.  With  a  red  shawl  around  her 
pretty  chubby  face  and  kindly  curiosity  beam- 
ing cut  of  her  clear  brown  eyes,  she  started 
away,  walking  briskly  as  was  her  habit.  As 
she  was  going  through  the  back  gate,  Jas- 
per called  to  her  and  running  to  where  she 
was,  handed  her  an  old  navy  pistol,  loaded 
and  primed.  She  thanked  him  for  his  inter- 
est, and  as  a  final  dig  told  him  she  would  not 
waste  ammunition  on  little  birds  as  he  had 
done,  but  would  save  it  for  no  smaller  game 
than  Indians.  "Sure  and  she  may  meet  some 
of  the  gay  lads",  said  old  Patt.  "If  she  does, 
they  will  act  pretty  quiet",  replied  Jasper, 
"they've  had  a  couple  of  pretty  good  lessons 
since  they  touched  this  locality." 

It  may  have  been  Jasper's  marksmanship, 
or  the  fact  that  dusk  was  falling,  but  Mary 
noticed  the  forest  was  quieter  than  she  had 
ever  known  it  before.  Once  a  big  black 
squirrel  ran  across  the  path,  another  time  a 
wild  turkey  hen;  she  heard  the  twigs  crack 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  255 

a  couple  of  times  as  if  deer  were  near,  but 
that  was  all.  The  evening  was  so  still,  that 
the  odor  of  the  evergreens  was  heavy  and 
oppressive.  She  stopped  at  a  few  of  the 
springs,  as  the  steep  climb  made  her  perspire, 
and  she  was  a  girl  a  little  inclined  to  stout- 
ness, but  she  was  making  good  time  on  her 
journey. 

The  top  of  the  mountain  was  very  dif- 
ferent from  the  sides.  The  summit  was  al- 
most bare  of  living  timber,  while  the  sides 
were  a  jungle  of  forest  monarchs.  There 
were  dead  trees  a-plenty  on  the  top,  none  of 
them  very  tall,  scrub  oaks,  pitch  pines  and 
hemlocks,  which  had  given  up  the  ghost  at 
an  early  age  after  their  unequal  battle  with 
the  elements.  They  were  barkless,  silvery 
white  in  color,  gnarled,  and  twisted,  and 
torn  into  every  conceivable  shape.  Some  of 
their  broken  limbs  were  supplicating,  others 
defiant  or  menacing,  all  the  pines  and  hem- 
locks had  their  tops  smashed  off,  and  stood 
like  an  array  of  headless  spectres.  One  tree 
had  its  trunk  so  bent  that  it  resembled  a 
human  being  in  the  attitude  of  prayer.  They 


256  Tales  of  The 

were  always  creaking  and  complaining  to  the 
mountain  breeze.  A  little  thin  grass  and 
white  fireweed  grew  at  their  roots,  in  this 
golgotha  of  the  woods. 

As  she  emerged  from  the  green  timber,  her 
keen  eyes  detected  something  ahead  which  at 
first  looked  like  three  huge  brown  stumps  be- 
side the  path.  A  second  glance  showed  the 
"brown  stumps"  to  be  three  Indians  wrapped 
in  their  blankets,  for  it  was  cool  on  the  sum- 
mit. One  of  them,  the  youngest,  was  dis- 
playing a  keenly  sharpened  celt  to  his  com- 
panions, who  were  much  his  senior.  She 
walked  boldly  forward  and  just  as  the  sav- 
ages became  aware  of  her  presence,  she  rec- 
ognized the  young  Indian  to  be  none  other 
than  Billy  Frozen  Stone.  Recognition  was 
mutual,  and  he  jumped  up  brandishing  his 
weapon.  His  older  companions  grabbed  at 
the  trimmings  of  his  trousers,  but  he  was 
off,  tearing  along  the  path  in  the  direction 
from  whence  Mary  was  coming.  The  canny 
girl  tciik  it  for  granted  he  meant  no  friendly 
greeting,  and  left  the  path,  and  ran  for  her 
life.  The  Indian  followed  and  would  have 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  257 

caught  her,  only  she  stopped  and  from  behind 
a  dead  oak,  took  aim  and  fired  at  him.  Her 
aim  was  fairly  good,  for  Billy  Frozen  Stone 
howled  with  pain,  and  holding  his  hand  over 
his  left  side,  wheeled  about  and  hobbled  back 
to  the  path.  Mary  wandered  some  distance 
along  the  summit,  almost  to  where  the  ridge 
dips  down  to  Castanea  gap,  but  as  it  was 
growing  dark,  she  plucked  up  her  courage 
and  returned  to  the  path.  To  her  surprise 
and  horror  she  found  the  young  Indian  rest- 
ing against  a  tree,  with  his  hands  vainly 
trying  to  stay  the  copious  flow  of  blood 
which  poured  from  his  left  side.  When  an 
Indian  is  badly  hurt  he  turns  deep  blue,  like 
a  colored  man  turns  grey,  and  this  fellow's 
complexion  was  the  shade  of  the  berries  on 
Solomon's  Seal. 

Mary  had  never  taken  a  course  in  "first 
aid  to  the  injured,"  for  such  bright  ideas 
were  unknown  in  those  days,  but  she  was  the 
equal  to  any  emergency.  She  quickly  tore  a 
thick  strand  off  her  woolen  skirt,  for  this 
mountain  girl,  like  her  modern  sisters,  wore 
no  underwear,  and  with  the  aid  of  a  stick 


258  Tales  of  The 

made  a  turniquet  and  bound  it  around  the 
young  redman's  waist.  Up  to  this  point  the 
wounded  savage  had  taken  little  notice  of 
her,  but  the  loss  of  blood  being  checked, 
his  mind  began  to  co-ordinate,  and  he  looked 
up  and  recognized  her.  To  her  wonderment  it 
was  not  a  look  of  gratitude  or  forgiveness,  it 
was  a  look  of  hate.  Mary  was  grieved,  she 
had  all  but  killed  the  Indian,  and  now  he  felt 
badly  because  she  was  bringing  Tiim  back  to 
life.  But  she  didn't  care  what  he  thought, 
she  was  doing  her  duty,  she  didn't  want  to 
be  known  as  an  Indian  killer;  they  said  her 
father  had  killed  an  even  dozen  in  his  day. 

He  continued  to  rest  against  the  tree,  gaz- 
ing at  her  more  intently  and  maliciously  as 
he  got  the  better  grip  on  his  consciousness. 
Mary  looked  about  her.  The  other  two  In- 
dians had  gone,  evidently  they  scented  trou- 
ble no  matter  how  the  encounter  came  out 
and  decided  to  put  miles  between  them  and 
the  fated  spot.  Mary  got  to  day  dreaming 
about  Dolly  Hope's  babies,  whether  they  had 
blue  eyes  like  their  mother,  or  black  eyes 
like  their  father,  and  whether  her  folks  would 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  259 

suppose  she  was  at  her  friend's  home  by  now, 
and  so  on,  until  she  forgot  her  proximity  to 
the  wounded  warrior.  Maybe  Billy  Frozen 
Stone  had  hypnotic  powers,  and  was  soothing 
her  like  a  blacksnake  does  a  robin.  He  was 
watching  his  chance. 

When  her  thoughts  were  far  away  he 
lunged  forward,  and  caught  her  plump  white 
throat  in  his  vise-like  grasp.  Mary  was 
stunned  for  an  instant,  but  with  her  sturdy 
arms  struggled  hard  to  shake  herself  free. 
The  struggle  must  be  brief,  she  would  be 
strangled  if  there  was  delay.  But  nature, 
rather  than  her  own  agility  came  to  the  res- 
cue. As  they  tumbled  about,  the  Indian's 
turniquet  gave  way,  and  the  blood  which  had 
been  dammed  inside  burst  forth  like  a  fresh- 
et. She  felt  his  grip  relax,  and  with  her  own 
hands,  wrenched  herself  loose.  It  was  none 
too  soon,  she  was  fainting,  and  the  Indian 
was  all  but  dead.  If  she  hadn't  been  such  a 
stalwart  hardy  girl,  he  might  have  died  with 
his  fingers  clenching  her  throat.  She  sighed 
a  sigh  of  relief  when,  fanned  by  the  night 


260  Tales  of  The 

wind,  she  came  to  herself,  and  saw  the  fate 
she  had  escaped. 

The  Indian  drained  of  the  last  drop  of 
blood  lay  dead  on  the  rocks,  hideous  and 
shrivelled  in  his  dessicated  condition.  The 
brave  girl  consoled  herself  that  she  had  only 
prolonged  his  life  temporarily  when  she 
bound  up  his  wound,  sooner  or  later  it  would 
have  been  fatal.  She  had  no  regrets,  but  felt 
rather  happy  at  the  way  she  had  managed 
things.  Then  she  walked  back  to  the  spring 
nearest  the  top  of  the  mountain  and  washed 
her  face  and  hands. 

A  golden  harvest  moon  was  up  to  the  level 
of  the  summit  by  this  time,  she  smiled  to 
herself,  when  she  looked  at  her  blood-stained 
skirt,  torn  off  to  the  level  of  her  dimpled 
knees.  She  was  perfectly  composed  as  she 
passed  the  dead  body  for  the  second  time 
and  resumed  her  journey  to  Dolly  Hope's 
cabin  in  Nittany.  Just  as  she  left  the  sum- 
mit with  its  grey-white  ghostly  trees,  a  great 
black  wolf  skulked  across  the  path,  not  twen- 
ty feet  in  front  of  her.  "You  are  out  after 
your  supper  pretty  quickly,  old  boy,"  she 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  261 

laughed,  and  pointed  the  pistol  at  him  just 
for  fun,  at  the  sight  of  which  the  beast 
drooped  his  tail  between  his  legs  and  moved 
faster. 

It  was  midnight  when  she  reached  the 
cabin  of  her  "companion  girl";  she  hated  to 
disturb  the  sleepers,  but  the  watchdog  per- 
formed that  service  for  her.  Dietrich  and 
Dolly  noticed  her  torn  skirt  all  spattered  with 
blood.  "Kill  a  bear?"  they  queried.  Mary 
could  not  tell  an  untruth.  She  first  admired 
the  babies  and  then,  before  dawn,  told  them  the 
entire  story.  That  was  the  last  Indian  Mary 
ever  saw  in  going  over  the  mountain. 


XIV. 


FOR   THE   GLORY   OF  INDIAN 

SUMMER 
(Story  of  Mount  Eagle) 


A.NY  persons  have  wondered 
what  was  the  origin  of  the 
words  "Indian  Summer." 
Only  recently  a  correspond- 
ent wrote  to  the  New  York 
Evening  Sun,  asking  for 
this  information.  But  the 
paper  usually  so  explicit  did 
not  give  a  very  definite  re- 
ply, except  that  it  was  first  known  in  writ- 
ten language  in  1794.  The  Lenni-Lenape 
used  to  say  that  Indian  Summer  was  more 
properly  the  name  of  a  girl,  though  it  was 
also  the  name  of  a  season.  Lena-kit-chita  was 
the  name  of  the  Indian  maid,  and  it  also  cor- 
responded with  the  word  meaning  this  most 
delightful  period  of  the  year. 

Five  or  six  centuries  ago  there  was  a  nota- 
ble encampment  of  Indians  on  the  slopes  of 

262 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  263 

Mount  Eagle,  in  the  i>ald  Eagle  range.  At 
that  time  this  region  was  a  stronghold  of  the 
now  vanished  Lenni-Lenape.  This  pictur- 
esque and  valiant  tribe  had  a  particularly 
courageous  chief  called  Chau-wa-lanne,  or 
Forked-Tail  Eagle,  whose  personal  bravery 
and  charm  had  much  to  do  with  cementing 
the  clans  into  closer  union.  He  maintained 
his  regal  lodge-house  on  the  summit  of  Mount 
Eagle ;  believing  that  he  was  descended  from 
the  king  of  birds,  and  must  live  as  in  an  eyrie. 
The  remainder  of  the  settlement  was  upon 
the  lower  levels  of  the  mountains  and  in  the 
ravine  below.  It  has  come  down  to  us  that 
over  fifteen  hundred  souls  made  up  its  quota. 
Five  hundred  of  these  were  trained  warriors, 
the  pick  of  the  tribal  organizations.  There 
was  not  one  of  them  who  stood  under  six  feet 
in  height;  they  were  an  "old  guard"  of  an 
earlier  day.  Chau-wa-lanne  himself  was  tall- 
er than  any  of  his  warriors,  with  that  keen 
eye  beneath  busy  brows,  and  sharp  curved 
nose,  so  characteristic  of  stout-hearted  men. 
Though  very  tall,  he  was  willowy  and  grace- 
ful; he  could  outjump  any  member  of  his 


264  Tales  of  The 

tribe,  he  could  outrun  the  swiftest  deer.  In 
the  chase  he  always  outran  his  game ;  he  con- 
sidered it  beneath  his  dignity  to  stand  still 
and  shoot. 

An  eagle  flies  above  its  prey  until  it  falls 
exhausted  and  is  overcome  easily,  and  this 
was  precisely  the  method  of  Chau-wa-lanne. 
Once  he  chased  a  giant  panther  through  the 
forest,  up  trees,  and  down  again,  leaping 
from  one  rock  to  another,  crawling  over  ra- 
vines on  grape-vines  and  prostrate  logs,  but 
he  tired  the  animal,  and  broke  its  jaw  with 
his  iron  hand,  without  a  struggle.  Struck 
with  pity  for  the  magnificent  brute,  he  drag- 
ged him  back  to  his  lodge  and  made  him  a 
pet.  The  animal  was  readily  tamed,  and 
made  an  admirable  "watch-dog." 

There  was  a  giant  forked  white  pine  near 
the  lodge-house,  its  spiral,  buck-topped  pin- 
nacles seemed  to  unite  with  the  heavenly 
dome.  Two  pairs  of  eagles  made  their  nests 
in  the  cage-like  tops,  emblems  of  perpetual 
good  luck  to  Chau-wa-lanne,  living  beneath. 
In  every  way  he  seemed  to  be  one  of  the 
chosen  of  Getchi-Manitto,  the  Great  Spirit. 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  265 

It  does  seem  as  if  some  souls  are  selected 
to  do  the  big  work  in  this  life.  All  is  so  easy 
to  them,  every  wish  so  quickly  gratified. 
With  others  it  is  a  painful  struggle,  a  long 
seige  of  disappointment,  unappreciation,  un- 
congenial tasks.  It  is  a  case  of  striving  only 
to  be  beaten  back  until  one  sinks  into  the  in- 
activity of  despair.  The  Great  Spirit  has  cast 
such  to  play  minor  roles.  But  with  Chau- 
wa-lanne  to  wish  was  to  realize ;  life  is  a  suc- 
cess to  the  divinely  anointed.  But  unlike  a 
few  of  Infinity's  favorites,  he  did  not  become 
vain  and  overbearing.  The  sharp,  keen  out- 
lines of  his  dominant  face  showed  that  ener- 
vation, the  indolence  of  happiness,  could 
never  be  his.  His  was  a  warrior's  part,  a 
mountaineer's  part,  a  hunter's  part,  the  at- 
tributes of  his  fanciful  eagle-blood.  His 
father,  Wiponquoak,  or  White  Oak,  a  noted 
chief  before  him  had  died  a  lingering  death 
from  wounds  received  in  one  of  his 
victorious  battles  when  Chau-wa-lanne  was 
only  nineteen;  responsibility  coming  upon 
him  at  this  early  age  helped  to  develop 
his  Spartan  qualities.  But  like  Alexander 


266  Tales  of  The 

he  longed  for  fresh  worlds  to  conquer, 
he  longed  to  incite  warfare  in  distant  tribes. 
But  none  would  provoke  this  human  tower  of 
strength.  At  twenty-four  he  was  like  some 
great  pinioned  bird,  seeking  to  unfold  wings 
designed  to  rule  the  high  air. 

It  was  at  this  mentally  mature  period  of 
his  life  that  love  was  born.  Always  a  hunt- 
er and  a  soldier,  a  man's  man,  his  romances 
had  been  few  and  far  between.  Furthermore 
he  was  so  beautiful  physically,  his  ways  so 
engaging,  that  a  nod  would  have  brought  any 
woman  to  his  side,  even  if  he  had  not  been 
a  king.  When  love  settled  down  like  a  dove  in 
an  eagle's  nest,  it  was  for  the  beautiful 
maiden  Lena-kit-chita,  or  Indian  Summer, 
daughter  of  the  famous  captain  Woakus  or 
Grey  Fox.  By  birth  she  was  not  the  equal 
of  Chau-wa-lanne,  few  would  have  been  for 
that  matter,  but  her  blood  was  noble,  of 
the  rank  of  many  noted  chiefs  and  war- 
riors, even  if  she  could  not  claim  kinship 
with  Chau-wa-lanne.  Caste  was  firmly  ad- 
hered to  in  those  days;  the  Indians  saw  the 
evils  of  misalliances  much  more  intelligently 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  267 

than  we  of  today  with  all  our  ancestral  so- 
cieties and  heraldic  manifestations.  It  was 
generally  the  custom  for  an  Indian  King  to 
marry  a  woman  who  was  related  to  him,  to 
"keep  the  rank  in  the  family,"  but  there  was 
no  positive  barrier  against  a  union  with  an 
unrelated  person  provided  she  was  of  noble 
blood.  Lena-kit-chita  being  well  born,  and 
the  most  beautiful  of  her  tribe,  could  not  be 
discriminated  against;  the  loyal  subjects  re- 
joiced at  their  beloved  monarch's  decision  to 
take  a  wife  who  might  send  his  seed  down  the 
ages.  It  was  a  genuine  love  match,  at  least 
after  all  these  years  tradition  declares  that 
it  was,  although  there  had  been  an  earlier 
lover  in  the  life  of  Lena-kit-chita.  There 
was  no  doubt  but  that  it  was  Chau-wa-lanne's 
first  affair. 

An  Indian  could  not  burst  the  bonds  of 
caste  through  being  a  warrior  or  a  hunter, 
no  matter  how  superlatively  brave  he  might 
be,  or  if  he  was  a  weapon-maker  or  artist, 
but  if  he  possessed  the  gift  of  second  sight, 
was  a  wise  man,  he  could  raise  his  social 
status  next  to  that  of  the  king.  There  was  a 


268  Tales  of  The 

poor  widow  in  the  camp,  her  husband  in  his 
lifetime  had  trapped  pigeons,  making  coats 
out  of  the  sunrise-colored  breasts  of  the  male 
birds,  in  other  words  was  an  Indian  draper. 
This  aged  woman  had  one  son,  whose  spirit- 
ual gifts  had  made  him  the  most  noted  man 
in  the  settlement.  They  called  him  Wili-wili- 
han,  or  the  soothsayer.  Despite  the  fact  that 
mentally  he  towered  above  every  Indian  of 
his  tribe,  physically  he  was  at  a  disadvantage. 
His  stature  was  short,  his  shoulders  were 
not  broad,  his  frame  contracted  or  puny.  He 
had  a  large  head,  a  bigger  head  than  even 
the  giant  Chau-wa-lanne,  but  his  features 
were  irregular;  on  one  side  of  his  face  the 
profile  was  good,  the  other  side  defective. 
In  most  self-made  men  and  women  the  left 
side,  which  controls  the  right  hand,  is  most 
fully  developed.  That  is  the  side  we  make 
ourself ,  the  other  is  the  side  we  are  born  with. 
On  the  left  side  there  was  divinity  in  Wili- 
wili-han's  face,  on  the  right  clownishness, 
like  the  right  side  of  Lincoln's  face. 

The  young  soothsayer  had  worked  hard  to 
perfect  his  art,  his  nearness  to  the  infinite, 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  269 

it  showed  in  the  serious,  though  not  har- 
monious lines  of  his  countenance.  In  the 
camp  adjoining  to  that  of  the  widow  and  her 
gifted  son  dwelt  Woakus  or  Grey  Fox,  the 
famous  captain.  Besides  his  squaw  he  had 
several  sons  and  daughters,  including  one 
girl  named  Lena-kit-chita,  or  Indian  Sum- 
mer. How  she  got  this  strange  sobriquet  none 
can  tell,  but  it  came  to  be  most  appropriate 
as  events  shaped  themselves.  She  of  course 
knew  young  Wili-wili-han,  and  always  spoke 
up  for  him  when  others  ridiculed.  "He  will 
be  the  greatest  one  among  you",  was  the 
tenor  of  her  championship.  When  the  other 
boys  and  girls  threw  stones  at  him  and  would 
not  let  him  play  their  games,  Lena-kit-chita 
would  always  run  to  his  side,  and  comfort 
and  amuse  him.  She  was  a  stalwart,  lioness 
of  a  girl,  and  once  or  twice  soundly  thrashed 
well-grown  boys  for  molesting  her  favorite. 
Wili-wili-han  was  shy  by  nature,  he  had  lim- 
ited powers  of  expressing  himself,  but  as  best 
as  a  "silent  man"  can  he  conveyed  his  grati- 
tude to  his  fair  protectress.  She  often  stop- 
ped at  his  humble  lodge  and  asked  him  to 


270  Tales  of  The 

accompany  her  on  walks  in  the  woods.  Neither 
would  speak  much  on  these  excursions,  but 
both  were  thinking  deeply. 

Once,  and  once  only  did  Wili-wili-han  kiss 
the  smooth,  round  cheek  of  his  friend,  but 
one  kiss  to  a  spiritual  man  means  more  than 
a  thousand  to  a  lecher.  The  gist  of  the  young 
man's  thoughts  were  that  some  day,  when 
he  was  famous,  he  would  ask  Lena-kit-chita 
to  marry  him.  She  must  care  for  him  else 
why  would  she  stay  away  from  her  other 
and  livelier  companions  to  amuse  him,  why 
would  she  fight  for  him,  why  would  she  ask 
him  to  go  with  her  on  so  many  walks  in  the 
forest,  why  would  she  hold  up  her  smooth, 
firm  cheek  so  that  he  might  kiss  her.  But 
again,  why  should  she  marry  one  so  eccen- 
tric, so  physically  disproportionate,  so  ill 
born,  so  poor.  But  he  was  underrating  him- 
self, he  had  a  distinctive  personality,  and  was 
far  from  being  what  would  be  called  homely ; 
his  mystic  gifts  had  already  found  him  mark- 
ed favor  with  the  king.  He  was  now,  a  noble- 
man by  courtesy;  every  honor  accorded  to 
rank  was  exhibited  towards  him.  All  he 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  271 

would  have  needed  was  a  little  courage,  and 
Leiia-kit-chita  was  his, — in  those  days.  While 
he  was  hesitating  and  repining,  Chau-wa- 
lanne  had  espied  the  fair  maid  himself.  He 
commanded  that  she  be  brought  before  him, 
and  she  was  delighted  at  this  signal  honor. 
Arraying  herself  in  her  best,  in  a  coat  of  the 
breasts  of  male  wild  pigeons,  with  a  collar 
and  cuffs  of  opposum  fur,  she  attended  the 
regal  youth  at  his  lodge  house  on  the  summit 
of  Mount  Eagle. 

It  had  been  a  case  of  love  at  first  sight 
with  Chau-wa-lanne  when  he  had  seen  her 
at  a  distance;  Lena-kit-chita  sixteen  year 
old  girl  that  she  was,  had  always  admired 
her  stalwart  king.  Now  when  they  met  face 
to  face,  each  was  illuminated  with  a  consum- 
ing love.  Much  as  she  had  secretly  cared 
for  Wili-wili-han,  she  had  always  felt  that 
he  lacked  something — now  she  knew,  it 
was  physical  beauty.  Before  her  stood  the 
great  slim  muscular  Chau-wa-lanne,  six  feet 
five  inches  in  height,  with  the  features  of  an 
eagle,  the  muscular  development  of  a  pan- 
ther. He  seemed  typical  of  the  world  he  rul- 


272  Tales  of  The 

ed:  above  him  soared  the  eagles,  screaming 
their  treble  fury,  nearby  growled  the  pet 
panther.  Back  of  him  was  ranged  his  per- 
sonal body-guard,  composed  of  youths  of  his 
own  age,  and  almost  similar  height.  Lena- 
kit-chita  stood  probably  five  feet  eight;  she 
towered  above  Wili-wili-han  it  seemed,  but  in 
the  presence  of  her  king  she  felt  a  more  equa- 
ble sense  of  proportion.  She  could  hardly 
speak  for  her  rapt  admiration  of  his  charms. 
When  he  talked  his  attractiveness  was  en- 
hanced. He  had  a  clear,  well-modulated  voice, 
his  manners  would  have  captivated  any  wom- 
an, he  was  so  considerate,  so  polished.  It 
was  a  clear  sense  of  noblesse  oblige.  There 
is  no  reaon  for  a  king  to  pursue  a  long  court- 
ship—when he  knows  all  about  the  object 
of  his  love.  He  had  investigated  Lena-kit- 
ehita  before  he  sent  for  her,  her  birth  he  was 
familiar  with  before ;  her  character  had  been 
pronounced  spotless.  She  was  not  surprised 
when  he  wound  up  the  interview  by  asking 
her  to  become  his  bride.  He  would  not  have 
invited  her  to  climb  Mount  Eagle  for  less. 
She  accepted  with  such  genuine  cordiality 


liald  Eagle  Mountains  273 

that  the  young  King  felt  assured  that  he  had 
found  a  jewel,  a  loving  mate.  She  was  asked 
to  set  a  date,  naming  a  day  two  moons  hence. 

The  wedding,  which  occurred  in  the  beau- 
tiful month  of  May,  was  attended  by  Indians 
from  far  and  wide.  Chief  among  the  par- 
ticipants was  Wili-wili-han,  who  had  lately 
assumed  the  post  of  High  Priest,  upon  the 
death  of  the  venerable  redman,  Pethakwonn, 
or  Thundergust,  who  had  performed  this 
office  for  so  many  years.  If  he  was  grieved  to 
see  his  one  and  only  love  marrying  another, 
he  made  no  outward  show  of  it.  He  had  been 
one  of  the  first  to  congratulate  Lena-kit-chita 
when  he,r  bethothal  was  announced ;  it  seem- 
ed to  give  him  an  unalloyed  pleasure.  There 
was  no  pettiness,  no  rancor  in  his  nature ;  life 
was  an  open  book  to  this  philosopher. 

After  the  ceremony  the  happy  couple,  who 
had  eyes  for  no  one  but  themselves,  went 
for  a  short  trip  down  the  Creek,  in  a  sumptu- 
ously decorated  canoe  built  of  white  or  "ca- 
noe" birch-bark.  The  royal  bridegroom  was 
his  own  steersman  while  the  bride  reclined 
on  cushions  and  robes  of  mountain  cat  and 


274  Tales  of  The 

otter.  They  were  so  overjoyed  to  be  away  to- 
gether that  they  prolonged  the  trip  consider- 
ably; six  moons  had  passed  before  they  re- 
turned to  their  eyrie.  Soon  after  they  came 
back,  Lena-kit-chita  was  seized  with  a  heavy 
cold,  which  developed  into  pneumonia.  It 
seemed  for  a  time  as  if  she  must  die,  and  leave 
all  her  happiness.  But  Wili-wili-han,  who  had 
been  summoned  to  minister  to  her,  pulled  her 
through  the  crisis,  drawing  her  back  from 
the  yawning  jaws  of  death.  Though  she  es- 
caped the  grim  reaper  she  did  not  improve 
as  her  watchful  husband  thought  she  should. 
There  was  a  racking  cough,  an  emaciation,  a 
listlessness  that  betokened  perhaps  a  perma- 
nent affection  of  the  lungs.  She  had  chills 
and  fever,  which  reduced  her  vitality  lower 
each  succeeding  day. 

To  make  matters  worse  the  summer  was 
waning  fast  and  the  long  rains  which  would 
last  until  the  advent  of  winter  were  an  ap- 
palling prospect.  When  the  equinoxial  rains 
betokened  that  summer  was  no  more,  Lena- 
kit-chita  moaned  and  cried  for  the  fair  days 
that  had  gone.  "If  I  couldn't  improve  in  sun- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  275 

shine,  how  could  I  do  better  in  constant 
storm",  she  wailed  as  she  tossed  her  shapely 
form  about  on  her  couch  of  buffalo  robes.  But 
she  was  really  not  a  complainer;  she  had  no 
desire  to  make  Chau-wa-lanne's  lot  harder 
than  it  was.  She  was  suffering  intensely,  and 
anyone  would  have  bemoaned  a  fate  which 
offered  no  respite.  There  was  a  natural  drain- 
age on  Mount  Eagle,  there  were  no  pools 
to  hold  water,  but  even  at  that,  the  constant 
drip,  drip,  drip  was  disheartening,  depress- 
ing. One  morning,  when  there  had  been  a 
steady  downpour  for  five  days,  the  fair  suf- 
ferer underwent  a  severer  chill  than  usual; 
Wili-wili-han  who  had  occupied  a  tepee  near 
the  royal  quarters  ever  since  she  had  been 
stricken,  was  hastily  summoned.  He  applied 
all  his  remedies,  and  sa  -ed  her  heart's  action 
from  collapse.  When  she  recovered  suffici- 
ently to  be  calm,  she  sent  for  Chau-wa-lanne. 
"I  am  better,  my  beloved,  but  I  have  strong 
reason  to  believe  that  I  will  never  get  well." 
The  king  tried  to  encourage  her,  but  she 
shook  her  curly  head,  "No,  I  can  never  im- 
prove while  these  storms  continue;  I  wish 


276  Tales  of  The 

that  there  was  a  season  like  my  name,  In- 
dian Summer,  a  season  following  the  sum- 
mer, when  the  glad  sunshine  of  happier  days 
would  succeed  the  depressing  equinoxial 
rains,  a  period  of  warmth  and  life,  before  we 
feel  the  winter's  blast. 

I  have  only  rain  and  snow  to  look  forward 
to  now;  the  rains  chill  me,  the  mound  of  the 
snows  will  prepare  the  way  for  the  mound 
which  will  soon  be  heaped  above  my  re- 
mains." She  could  say  no  more  after  this; 
sobbing  she  sank  back  on  her  pillow  exhaust- 
ed. Both  the  King  and  Wili-wili-han  were 
deeply  moved  by  her  words;  they  realized 
the  truth  of  what  she  said,  but  they  seemed 
powerless  to  alter  climatic  conditions.  They 
stood  in  silence  before  the  fair  invalid,  un- 
til a  drooping  of  her  eyelids  told  them  that 
she  had  fallen  into  a  doze.  Then  the  two  pow- 
erful men  of  tribe  withdrew,  each  trembling 
with  a  sense  of  his  own  impotence  against 
the  forces  of  Nature.  As  they  stepped  out- 
side, the  drip  from  the  eaves  trickled  upon 
them,  and  ran  down  their  backs.  Chau-wa- 
lanne  turned,  and  laid  his  sinewy  hand  on 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  277 

the  wise  man's  shoulder.  "Soothsayer,"  he 
said,  impressively,  "I  have  a  favor  to  ask 
of  you."  ''Anything  I  can  do  will  be  my 
greatest  pleasure,  sire,"  Wili-wili-han  replied. 
"You  have  infinite  power,  or  as  nearly  so  as 
mortal  can  possess  it,"  the  king  resumed, 
"won't  you  intercede  with  the  forces  of  na- 
ture and  restore  the  health  of  my  beloved 
queen?"  "I  have  tried  in  every  way,  master," 
answered  the  wise  man,  "but  of  no  avail ;  my 
medical  potations  have  sufficed  to  a  certain 
point  but  no  further,  my  fervent  prayers  may 
have  kept  her  alive,  but  in  a  sad  and  almost 
hopeless  state."  "But  can't  you,"  broke  in 
Chau-wa-lanne,  "ask  the  Great  Spirit,  the 
Getchi-Manitto  whom  we  have  always  served, 
to  send  a  new  season,  whose  sunbeams  will 
restore  the  color  to  Lena-kit-chita's  cheeks, 
and  make  despondent  nature  glad  again,  be- 
fore the  pall  of  the  ice  king?"  "I  do  not  see 
how  mortal  would  dare  to  expect  such  'a 
benefice,"  replied  the  soothsayer,  "Getchi- 
Manitto  created  seasons  which  seemed  best 
suited  to  the  needs  of  the  most  of  us.  We 
might  all  be  rebuked  for  our  presumption." 


278  Tales  of  The 

"Wili-wili-han,"  said  the  King,  "Lena-kit- 
chita  is  a  young  woman  of  saintly  life;  she 
should  be  spared  to  the  redmen  as  an  example 
of  goodness ;  I  firmly  believe  the  Great  Spirit 
will  listen."  "Whatever  you  say  is  true,  my 
king,"  said  the  wise  man,  "your  faith  gives 
me  the  strength  to  ask  this  blessing.  I  will 
tonight  retire  to  an  inaccessable  cliff  on  this 
same  mountain,  and  ask  as  you  request." 
Chau-wa-lanne  shook  him  warmly  by  the 
hand,  and  the  two  men  parted. 

The  King  re-entered  the  lodge-house,  find- 
ing his  queen  awake.  "Darling  Lena-kit- 
chita,"  he  whispered,  "Wili-wili-han  has 
promised  to  ask  the  Great  Spirit  to  send  a 
new  season,  an  Indian  Summer,  beautiful  like 
yourself,  to  bring  you  back  to  health,  to  make 
all  Indians  happy,  before  the  onset  of  win- 
ter." The  sufferer  smiled  cheerfully:  "Wili- 
wili-han  is  a  great  soul,"  she  faltered,  "I 
know  he  is  favored  by  the  unseen  power,  I 
have  perfect  faith  in  his  accomplishment  if 
he  petitions  it."  After  fasting  all  day,  at 
dusk,  the  High  Priest  attired  himself  in  his 
official  robes,  hanging  to  his  person  every  tal- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  279 

isman  and  cabalistic  token  he  possessed.  At 
dark  he  emerged  from  his  tent  into  the  driz- 
zling rain.  The  leaves  on  the  trees  were  be- 
draggled and  falling;  the  earth  soggy  and 
oozing ;  he  could  appreciate  that  it  was  a  time 
when  invalids  would  go  downward  instead  of 
upward.  He  followed  a  trail  to  the  crag 
known  as  the  Eagle  Rock  which  overhung 
Machtando  or  as  it  is  now  called  the  Bald 
Eagle  Valley.  There  he  paused,  with  arms 
uplifted,  and  muttered  his  mystic  invocation. 
When  the  words  were  said,  he  fell  on  his 
face,  and  in  a  loud,  but  respectful  voice  chant- 
ed, "Oh,  Great  Spirit,  who  has  ever  been  the 
friend  of  the  race  of  Chau-wa-lanne,  and  have 
favored  this  young  ruler  ofttimes,  think  of 
the  sufferings  long  continued  of  his  queen. 
My  prayers  and  libations  have  failed;  there 
seems  but  one  chance  to  restore  her  back  to 
health;  this  one  chance  is  the  creation  of  a 
new  season,  a  fresh  spell  of  sunshine  and  col- 
or, to  succeed  the  dreary  pall  of  the  rains. 
Oh,  Great  Spirit,  ordain  it  for  the  glory  of 
Lena-kit-chita,  of  Indian  Summer,  best  and 
truest  of  her  tribe.  Let  her  live  on  as  an  ex- 


280  Tales  of  The 

ample  of  purity  and  godliness  to  her  race. 
One  and  all  need  this  new  season,  it  will 
bring  joy  and  hope  to  the  entire  people  of 
Lenni-Lenape." 

It  was  then  and  there  that  he  heard  the 
rustle  of  an  angel's  wing.  He  arose,  and 
walked  slowly,  and  sadly  back  along  the  trail 
in  the  drizzling  rain.  Out  of  the  darkness 
had  come  an  answer  of  blessing  to  the  in- 
valid, but  it  also  contained  evil  tidings 
as  to  the  future  of  his  race.  Further- 
more he  could  not  stifle  the  thought  that 
Lena-kit-chita  might  have  been  his  wife,  his 
share  of  the  glory  of  Indian  Summer.  He 
lay  awake  all  that  night,  thinking  over  his 
message  from  the  Infinite,  of  his  lost  love,  and 
how  he  wished  to  prove  his  unselfishness. 

Towards  dawn  the  patter  of  raindrops 
ceased,  and  he  heard  birds  singing  in  the 
trees.  Could  he  be  in  a  trance?  A  shaft  of 
sunlight,  like  midsummer,  shot  through  the 
flap  of  the  tent.  He  got  up,  and  looked  out,  a 
scene  of  rare  beauty  met  his  gaze.  All  the 
autumn  foliage  was  gleaming  in  the  warm 
sunlight,  the  mauve  of  the  beeches,  the  buff 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  281 

of  the  hickories,  the  ochre  of  the  tulip  trees, 
the  yellow  gold  of  the  maples,  the  maroon  of 
the  oaks,  the  titian  red  of  the  sumacs.  The 
woodbine  which  curved  laocoon-like  over  ced- 
ars and  pines,  was  magenta  colored  in  con- 
trast to  the  dark  greens  of  its  captives.  The 
grasses  were  pink  and  gold,  the  earth  was 
dry  and  firm.  Over  all  hung  a  delicate  haze, 
like  a  mantle  of  the  Great  Spirit  shutting  out 
the  rains,  and  leaving  in  only  the  light. 

Overjoyed  he  ran  to  Lena-kit-chita's  lodge ; 
finding  her  standing  at  the  door,  a  look  of 
rapture  in  her  face.  "Oh,  friend  and  queen," 
he  cried  out,  "this  is  your  weather,  your  days 
for  good  health  and  happiness,  it  is  all  for 
the  glory  of  Indian  Summer,  of  Queen  Lena- 
kit-chita!"  The  Queen  looked  at  him;  her 
voice  was  choked  with  emotion.  "How  can  I 
express  my  gratitude,  wise  High  Priest ;  from 
an  invalid,  hopeless  of  ever  getting  well,  you 
have  made  me  a  well  woman  supremely  happy 
in  this  beautiful  world."  "You  owe  no  thanks 
to  me,"  said  Wili-wili-han,  "it  is  to  the  Great 
Spirit  that  we  owe  everything,  who  has  done 
this  for  you,  to  show  that  he  loved  the  Indian 


282  Tales  of  The  Bald  Eagle  Mountains 

race.  Our  people  will  always  be  remembered 
while  this,  the  fairest,  most  mystic  season 
of  the  year  exists."  "Do  you  mean  that  some 
time  our  seed  may  grow  less?"  said  the  va- 
liant King  Chau-wa-lanne,  who  appeared  on 
the  scene  at  this  minute.  "Surely  there  will 
never  be  any  just  like  your  Queen  and  your 
Majesty,"  replied  the  wise  man,  evading  the 
question.  But  in  his  heart  he  knew  the  awful 
tragedy  which  loomed  ahead  of  his  people, 
like  a  rock  hidden  by  mist,  in  a  ship's  course ; 
the  voice  in  the  night  which  granted  his 
petition  had  told  him  this.  He  bowed,  and 
walked  away,  feeling  sick  at  heart,  for  he 
knew  that  his  race  would  vanish,  only  to  live 
as  ghosts,  filmy  and  vaporous  as  the  mists 
of  Indian  Summer.  With  such  a  fate  no  won- 
der Getchi-Manitto  could  give  them  a  new 
season,  an  Indian  Summer  as  a  last  indulg- 
ence. 


XV. 


THE  LOST  CHORD 
(Story  of  Beech  Creek  Mountain) 


OR  some  time  I  had  been  anx- 
ious to  meet  the  strange 
young  man.  I  was  just  as 
curious  as  his  unenlighten- 
ed neighbors  to  know  why 
he  had  constructed  a  bunga- 
low, fashioned  after  the 
style  of  an  old-time  log 
cabin  high  on  the  steep  face 
of  Beech  Creek  mountain.  Where  he  had  come 
from  was  the  chief  mystery,  for  though  he 
talked  freely  about  himself,  he  was  always 
reticent  about  his  beginnings. 

He  had  studied  art  in  Paris  and  Dussel- 
dorf,  had  been  a  war  correspondent  in  South 
Africa,  had  been  on  the  stage  in  Shakes- 
perean  drama,  had  followed  mercantile  pur- 
suits in  Philadelphia.  These  occupations  had 
been  told  to  me  by  as  many  different  persons ; 
it  was  hard  to  reconcile  them  into  one  per- 

263 


284  Tales  of  The 

sonality,  into  the  chronology  of  a  young  man 
of  scarce  thirty  years.  His  ultimate  retire- 
ment from  the  active  world  at  such  an  early 
age  seemed  surprising;  I  was  just  begin- 
ning to  live,  at  the  same  age. 

Of  all  the  persons  in  the  neighborhood, 
he  seemed  to  take  most  kindly  to  old  John 
Ruhlin.  John  was  a  mountain  tramp  by 
spells,  but  at  other  times  worked  diligently 
on  his  sister's  farm.  While  not  a  man  of 
education,  he  was  experienced  in  the  world 
and  its  ways,  and  could  entertain  the  strange 
young  man,  like  he  had  me,  with  his  ex- 
periences in  all  the  counties  of  mountainous 
Pennsylvania.  He  was  very  proud  of  the 
intimacy  which  he  had  contracted  with  the 
stranger;  it  made  him  the  spokesman  of  the 
one  interesting  figure  on  the  mountain.  In 
his  way  he  was  now  just  as  much  of  a  re- 
cluse as  the  stranger;  yet  within  the  limits 
of  a  dozen  counties,  he  had  gone  through  as 
much  as  some  men  who  have  circled  the 
globe. 

He  was  an  optimist,  who  felt  like  Leib- 
nitz that  "this  is  the  best  possible  world". 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  285 

He  .was  reconciled  to  its  injustices  by  for- 
getting all  about  them.  Can  it  be  that  mis- 
ery after  all  is  a  phantasm,  and  that  the 
good  and  happy  parts  of  life  alone  are  real? 
It  would  appear  so  because  there  are  some 
who  say  frankly  they  cannot  see  the  side 
which  gives  to  others  a  melancholy  tinge  to 
every  thought. 

The  old  man  was  delighted  to  have  the  op- 
portunity of  introducing  me  to  the  stranger. 
"You  are  sure  to  like  him;  he's  a  broad 
gauge  man;  he'll  not  go  back  on  you  like 
some  of  your  friends,  and  that  one  in  particu- 
lar who  you  helped  most."  But  I  said  to 
myself  if  this  strange  young  man  is 
in  comfortable  circumstances,  like  it  is 
claimed,  he  is  true  for  that  reason; 
only  the  dependent  is  disloyal,  and  then  only 
after  he  has  extracted  the  last  favor  obtain- 
able. But  there  are  some  persons  with  a 
sense  of  honor,  no  matter  how  indigent  in 
condition,  but  that  has  been  bred  into  them 
by  generations  of  gentle  ancestors.  Con- 
science is  only  one  of  the  many  happy  facul- 
ties awakened  by  refinement. 


286  Tales  of  The 

It  was  a  dull,  overcast  afternoon  when  we 
started  to  climb  to  the  young  recluse's  re- 
treat. A  pathway  led  from  the  gorge  road 
over  the  face  of  the  mountain  to  the  "first 
bench".  From  there  to  the  bungalow  the 
climb  was  very  steep,  and  would  have  been 
arduous  to  some,  were  it  not  for  the  long 
flights  of  wooden  steps,  with  guard  rails, 
which  extended  all  the  way  to  the  door. 
The  cottage,  which  was  a  long,  low  one- 
storey  affair,  was  of  frame  construction,  cov- 
ered with  slabs  with  the  bark  on,  to  give  the 
impression  of  a  log  cabin.  There  were  spac- 
ious piazzas  on  the  front  and  sides,  but  the 
back  abutted  against  the  steep  mountain. 
There  were  several  arm-chairs,  made  of  rus- 
tic-wood, but  otherwise  porches  and  cottage 
seemed  uninhabited. 

When  we  reached  the  last  step,  we  paused 
for  a  moment  to  admire  the  gorgeous  view 
which  opened  out  before  us  through  a  vista 
in  the  tall  chestnut  trees.  The  deep  green 
of  the  forests  seemed  to  stretch  as  far  into 
the  valley  as  the  entrancing  "meeting  of  the 
waters"  of  Beech  Creek,  and  Bald  Eagle 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  287 

Creek.  Beyond  that  were  miles  of  farms,  in 
their  browns  and  greens  of  late  summer;  the 
town  was  hidden  behind  groves  of  button- 
wood  and  linn ;  in  the  distance  rose  the  over- 
powering vastness  of  the  Alleghany  plateau, 

While  thus  enraptured  the  door  opened, 
and  the  young  occupant  came  out  quietly ;  we 
were  not  aware  of  his  presence  until  he  stood 
beside  old  John,  and  gave  his  hand  a  squeeze. 
"I'm  glad  you  both  enjoy  the  scene,"  he  ex- 
claimed enthusiastically,  "most  people  com- 
plain they're  out  of  breath  when  they  get 
here;  the  view  is  secondary  to  that"  I 
turned  around  and  got  a  good  look  at  the 
young  fellow;  I  always  like  people  on  first 
impressions.  If  I  don't,  and  they  later  "grow 
on"  me,  I  am  sure  to  eventually  feel  again 
that  first  distrust  or  dislike,  for  everything 
in  life  is  a  circle.  I  am  free  to  confess  that 
I  liked  this  young  man's  looks.  He  was  about 
my  own  height,  with  hair  a  shade  darker, 
and  slimly  but  athletically  built.  He  was 
dressed  more  like  a  business  man  than  an 
artist;  his  hair  which  was  worn  longer  than 


Tales  of  The 


the  prevailing  fashion,   alone   revealed  the 
artistic  temperament. 

He  invited  us  to  enter  the  house,  he 
wanted  "to  show  us  around",  he  said.  In- 
side was  a  great  hall  or  living  room,  with  a 
tremendous  open  fire-place,  big  enough  for 
half  a  dozen  men  to  stand  in;  on  either  side 
was  a  bedroom,  one  for  the  master,  the  other 
for  the  colored  help.  He  explained  that  a 
family  of  faithful  negroes  were  the  only  per- 
sons who  would  live  with  him  on  the  moun- 
tain. They  had  only  one  drawback,  they 
were  in  constant  terror  of  mythical  wild  ani- 
mals. They  must  have  studied  a  copy  of 
William  Cox's  inimitable  book  "Fearsome 
Creatures  of  the  Lumber  Woods"  before  they 
came  there,  he  said.  In  front  of  the  fire- 
place lay  a  rug  made  from  the  hides  of  two 
enormous  panthers.  "Those  were  two  of  the 
last  panthers  killed  in  this  State,  the  famous 
hunter  who  shot  them,  presented  them  to  me. 
He  was  a  mere  boy  when  he  slew  them;  as 
most  of  the  great  soldiers  were  boys,  so  like- 
wise were  the  great  hunters.  Above  the 
mantel  hung  the  drab-colored  head  and  faded 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  289 

horns  of  Jim  Jacobson's  elk,  "the  last  elk 
killed  in  Pennsylvania".  It  was  the  most  val- 
uable natural  history  specimen  in  the  State. 

These  relics  were  enough  to  cement  a  na- 
turally congenial  association,  but  my  eyes 
kept  wandering  towards  the  book-cases  along 
the  walls,  to  a  pretty  porcelain  statuette  of 
a  shepherdess,  that  stood  on  a  wall  bracket 
above  the  piano.  The  young  man  was  watch- 
ing me,  to  see  what  interested  me  most;  he 
was  clearly  proud  of  his  possessions.  When 
my  eyes  rested  on  the  pretty  bit  of  porcelain, 
however,  he  hazarded  that  I  was  surprised 
to  find  a  grand  piano  on  a  mountain.  "It 
was  quite  a  piece  of  work  to  get  it  here ;  there 
is  an  old  bark-road  not  a  hundred  feet  from 
the  cottage;  we  brushed  it  out,  and  carted  it 
up  that  way,  but  it  was  a  trifle  rough". 

John  Ruhlin,  who  had  seen  all  these  curios 
before,  put  his  head  through  the  door  lead- 
ing to  the  servants'  quarters.  He  found  the 
negroes  in  the  kitchen,  so  went  in  to  talk 
with  them.  "Water  seeks  its  own  level",  but 
that  is  said  in  no  spirit  of  discredit  to  old 
John.  He  liked  to  hear  the  colored  folks  tell 


290  Tales  of  The 

of  strange  sights  and  sounds  that  bothered 
them  at  night ;  that  was  more  vital  than  some 
discussion  of  a  point  of  ethics.  But  I  was 
not  to  be  side-tracked  that  easily,  though  I 
wondered  why  I  should  feel  more  concern 
about  a  twelve-inch  statuette  than  Jim  Jacob- 
son's  elk  or  the  Beech  Creek  panthers. 

"That's  a  very  pretty  little  figure  on  the 
bracket  by  the  piano",  I  ventured.  "Yes, 
it  is,  rather",  said  the  young  man  nervously. 
It  evidently  worried  him  that  this  one  art 
work  possessed  a  magnetism  all  its  own. 
I  walked  over  as  near  as  I  could,  leaning 
across  the  piano  to  catch  a  better  glimpse. 
For  some  reason  the  object  fascinated  me. 
It  was  a  work  of  art  that  would  have  at- 
tracted attention  anywhere,  and  clearly  an 
individual  piece.  It  was  exquisitely  done, 
even  to  the  smallest  detail.  It  represented 
a  young  girl,  with  coal  black  hair,  wear- 
ing a  Nell  Gwynn  hat  of  dark  blue,  with 
a  black  wing  in  it,  clad  in  a  basque 
costume  of  electric  blue,  carrying  a  wand  in 
one  of  her  pretty  white  hands.  There  was 
such  archness  and  vitality  to  the  toute  en- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  291 

semble;  I  almost  felt  as  if  I  was  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  living  person.  The  figure  had  large 
blue  eyes,  they  reminded  me,  oh  so  sadly,  of 
vsomeone  now  in  far  distant  Tien  Tsin,  as 
did  the  black  lashes  and  brows,  the  straight 
nose  with  its  saucy,  retrousse  tip,  the  full 
upper  lip,  pouting  with  seriousness,  the  ala- 
baster whiteness  of  the  complexion,  the  arms, 
and  hands,  to  all  of  which  porcelain  was 
an  able  ally.  The  figure  was  trim  and 
jaunty.  The  little  white-stockinged  feet  in 
their  high-heeled  gilt  slippers  seemed  ready 
to  trip  off  the  pedestal.  I  would  not  have 
been  surprised,  if  it  suddenly  assumed  normal 
size  and  conversed  with  us.  I  could  not  take 
my  eyes  off  the  statuette.  I  was  embar- 
rassed; I  began  to  feel  almost  as  if  I  were 
staring  at  the  man's  intended.  I  looked  at  the 
young  fellow  again;  I  think  he  had  begun  to 
accept  me  as  a  kindred  soul;  he  now  seemed 
deeply  moved  by  my  interest  in  this  cherished 
object.  "You  really  like  that  figure,  do  you"? 
he  asked  me.  "I  certainly  do",  I  made  reply. 
"In  fact  I  never  saw  an  inanimate  object 
which  appealed  to  me  as  much;  I  was  un- 


292  Tales  of  The 

touched  by  the  Venus  de  Milo,  even  by  the 
Winged  Victory".  "I  am  glad  to  hear  you 
say  so",  he  said,  "that  little  bit  of  porcelain 
has  a  peculiar  history ;  it  is  the  leading  factor 
in  my  life  at  present — I  was  almost  on  the 
point  of  saying  that  it  was  the  cause  of  my 
settling  on  this  wild  mountain — but  do  I 
know  you  well  enough  to  tell  you  that"  ? 

I  assured  him  that  I  could  understand  any 
spiritual  adventures  of  an  artistic  nature, 
that  no  sensation  he  felt  would  be  unrecog- 
nizable to  me.  I  had  experienced  nearly  ev- 
ery pang  that  can  come  to  a  person  of  artistic 
apperceptions.  These  words  seemed  to  re- 
assure him,  but  it  was  some  time  before  he 
began  the  story. 

He  sat  down  before  the  piano,  and  closed 
a  number  of  sheets  of  music  which  had  evi- 
dently been  frequently  played.  At  another 
time  I  would  have  asked  him  to  play  for  me, 
but  now  I  wanted  to  learn  the  romance  of 
the  exquisite  porcelain  statuette.  "Three 
years  ago",  he  said,  "when  I  was  foolish 
enough  to  have  been  engaged  in  business  in 
Philadelphia,  I  was  called  to  Pittsburg  on 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  293 

an  important  matter.  I  always  travelled  by 
day,  if  possible,  and  on  this  occasion  it  suited 
very  well,  as  I  received  a  message  about  ten 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  boarded  the  first 
fast  train  I  could  get  after  that.  I  got  in 
the  car  just  a  minute  before  it  started,  and 
was  lucky  to  find  a  seat  by  the  window. 
After  it  started,  I  looked  around  to  size-up 
my  fellow  travellers;  I  am  a  democrat  and 
ride  in  the  day-coach.  I  always  liked  to  give 
people  names,  occupations  and  destinations; 
I  had  become  quite  adept  at  this,  and  in 
sketching  out  the  life's  histories  of  each. 
Directly  in  front  of  me  sat  a  grizzled  war 
veteran  bound  for  a  Soldiers'  Home.  Across 
the  aisle  from  me  sat  two  foreign 
women,  flat-faced  and  uninteresting.  'Johns- 
town or  Latrobe  will  get  them',  I  figured. 
In  the  seat  in  front  of  them  I  saw  a  young 
woman,  her  head  was  turned  away  at  this 
moment,  looking  out  at  the  West  Philadel- 
phia station.  When  she  turned  around  I  saw 
she  was  the  most  beautiful  being  I  had  ever 
beheld.  Her  profile  was  fascinating;  such  a 
pretty  turned-up  nose,  such  a  pouting  upper 


294  Tales  of  The 

lip,  and  such  smoothness  to  the  skin,  such  a 
well-rounded,  dimpled  chin,  such  deep  blue 
eyes,  such  lustrous  black  hair  and  brows! 
She  wore  a  big  felt  hat,  a  Nell  Gwynn  effect, 
with  a  black  wing  in  it,  her  suit  was  of  some 
soft  clinging  goods,  electric  blue  in  color, 
there  was  a  band  of  dark  blue  velvet  around 
her  white  throat.  I  hastily  drew  cut  pad 
and  pencil,  to  draw  the  witching  features, 
but  between  the  train's  motion  and  her  fre- 
quent turns  of  the  head  to  look  out  of  the 
window,  I  failed  utterly.  I  tore  up  my  un- 
finished sketches,  and  threw  them  on  the 
floor. 

"But  there  were  times  while  I  was  gazing 
out  at  the  Chester  hills,  or  at  distant  Mount 
Gretna,  that  I  felt  she  was  looking  at 
me.  I  turned  around  once  or  twice,  once  she 
blushed  and  buried  herself  in  a  book,  'Marie- 
Claire,'  it  happened  to  be.  I  felt  if  I  knew 
that  young  woman,  I  could  love  her  as  no 
woman  had  been  loved  before;  I  knew  her 
and  loved  her  enough  as  it  was  to  offer  my- 
self— if  I  but  had  the  privilege  of  her  ac- 
quaintance. I  wondered  if  any  man  had 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  295 

been  to  Paradise  by  kissing  those  pouting, 
serious  red  lips.  I  wondered  if  any  man  had 
assumed  parity  with  the  Gods  by  an  em- 
brace. She  seemed  to  be  a  lady,  she  had 
every  indication  of  refinement ;  but  that  made 
the  barrier  against  meeting  her  the  more  in- 
surmountable. 

"As  the  train  swept  around  the  bend  after 
crossing  the  primeval  gorge  of  Conewago 
Creek,  and  the  first  glimpse  always  so 
inspiring,  of  the  broad,  island  dotted,  hill 
horizoned  Susquehanna  is  revealed,  I  recited 
to  myself:  'You  are  more  beautiful  than  the 
landscape,  with  the  bronze-green  hills  wid- 
ening to  god-speed  the  steel-grey  river,  with 
its  circular  islands,  where  the  Kildeer  and  the 
Halcyon  hover,  with  the  sombre  mountains  in 
the  distance,  under  the  low-hanging  leaden 
sky;  I  will  never  forget  this  day  because  of 
you  whom  Fate  has  in  her  hands  to  let  me  see 
again,  or  I  forever  live  in  loneliness'.  By 
the  way  my  lips  moved,  I  wonder  if  she  sus- 
pected my  litany!  As  the  train  was  passing 
the  Faxton  furnaces,  I  saw  to  my  dismay, 
that  she  was  putting  on  her  coat  and  ad- 


296  Tales  of  The 

justing  her  books  and  papers,  as  if  to  leave 
at  the  next  station  stop,  Harrisburg. 

"This  blessed  communion  with  beauty  was 
to  come  to  an  end;  I  could  scarcely  believe 
my  senses.  Such  a  radiant  and  harmonious 
creature  coming  into  my  life  should  be  a 
more  permanent  element.  I  had  never  felt 
quite  as  happy,  quite  as  much  in  harmony,  at 
peace,  in  tune,  as  with  this  young  woman  in 
electric  blue,  with  eyes  to  match,  to  whom 
I  had  never  spoken  a  word.  I  felt  like  a 
musician  who  has  found  the  lost  chord,  where 
the  living  world  and  infinity  are  linked  by 
divine  rhapsody.  All  the  music  in  my  soul 
welled  up  in  a  song  of  happiness;  life  with 
this  rare  being  would  have  made  me  a  super- 
man. 

"But  now  the  brakes  were  being  thrown 
on,  and  the  cumbersome  steel  cars  were  com- 
ing to  a  halt  beneath  the  murky  shed.  The 
sweet,  graceful  little  creature  got  up,  satchel 
in  hand  and  started  for  the  door.  I  did  not 
£now  what  to  do — should  I  follow  or  remain 
where  I  was?  Pursuit,  that  most  primitive 
of  masculine  instincts,  got  the  upper  hand 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  297 

for  an  instant.  Perhaps  she  would  be  get- 
ting on  another  train,  I  might  ride  in  it  to 
find  out  where  she  lived.  I  ran  through  the 
empty  car,  and  out  on  the  station  platform; 
I  got  there  just  in  time  to  see  her  dainty 
figure  ascending  the  iron  stairway  leading  to 
the  waiting  room  and  street.  I  hated  to  fol- 
low her;  she  might  lose  any  good  opinion 
she  had  of  me — and  stamp  me  as  a  'masher'. 
I  state  that  she  might  have  had  a  good  opin- 
ion of  me  because  a  woman  to  have  made 
me  feel  so  spiritually  exalted,  literally  born 
anew,  must  have  received  some  beneficial  in- 
fluences from  me. 

"There  is  one  sided  love  of  the  carnal 
kind;  but  spiritual  love  ought  to  come  from 
harmony,  and  harmony  defined  is  'two  or 
more  different  musical  sounds  produced 
simultaneously'.  We  would  have  been  con- 
genial had  we  but  met !  Yet  with  many  per- 
sons, men  as  well  as  women,  I  feel  out  of 
harmony,  to  a  greater  or  lesser  extent.  If 
you  play  the  piano  you  will  notice  how  some- 
times an  inanimate  object  will  be  in  accord, 
or  in  harmony  with  your  instrument,  it  might 


298  Tales  of  The 

be  a  table,  a  chair,  a  guitar,  or  even  an  oil- 
stove  that  vibrates  in  sympathetic  ecstacy. 

"One  night  in  an  old  house  in  Baltimore  a 
full  chord  was  drawn  across  a  mandolin  while 
one  of  John  Field's  Nocturnes  was  being 
played  on  the  piano.  Some  of  those  present 
were  frightened,  thinking  a  ghost  had 
touched  the  strings;  perhaps  harmony  is  a 
term  for  ghost;  there  may  have  been  unity 
between  the  pianist  and  some  long-vanished 
player  of  that  mandolin.  That  is  my  theory 
of  it:  there  is  thought  back  of  every  act,  all 
your  icave  theories  to  the  contrary. 

"I  was  so  attuned  to  the  personality  of 
this  beautiful  girl,  she  appealed  to  me  as 
no  one  ever  had  before,  and  the  sweet 
echoes  are  still  stirring  with  an  ever-present 
still,  small  voice,  the  inmost  recesses  of  my 
soul.  At  first  I  cherished  the  vain  thought 
that  I  would  see  her  again — I  travelled  by 
the  same  train  in  hopes  that  the  calculus  of 
probabilities  might  again  send  her  across  my 
path.  I  had  often  seen  the  same  persons  on 
trains,  on  outward  and  return  journeys  of 
the  most  complicated  sort.  There  must  be 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  299 

a  similarity  of  purposes,  a  common  channel 
of  impulse,  to  explain  such  coincidences. 
Feeling  that  innate  spiritual  nearness  to  the 
beautiful  girl  in  blue,  I  fancied  that  if  she 
ever  travelled  at  all,  she  might  probably  ride 
on  the  same  train  with  me  again.  But  in 
this  I  was  disappointed,  my  fair  travelling 
companion  was  not  to  be  met  with.  I  made 
diligent  inquiries  in  the  capital  city  where 
I  had  many  good  friends,  but  to  no  avail.  I 
had  to  find  solace  in  the  lines,  'How  wide  the 
world,  how  small  its  particles'. 

"I  saw  several  young  women  after  that, 
who  were  beautiful,  talented,  attractive,  but 
they  did  not  produce  in  me  that  spiritual 
exaltation,  that  divine  harmony,  which  I  had 
felt  when  in  the  presence  of  that  fair  being 
in  electric  blue. 

"Was  the  lost  chord,  just  tcm'hed  that  one 
afternoon,  now  gone  forever? 

"It  was  a  depressing  thought,  to  have 
realized  that  such  possibilities  for  the 
ideal  life  can  exist,  only  to  have  them  ruth- 
lessly swept  away.  I  could  accept  no  IOWP^ 
valuation  on  life  than  I  had  felt  that  after- 


300  Tales  of  The 

noon  in  the  train.  If  the  lost  chord  was  en- 
gulfed in  the  trackless  sea  of  melody,  I  would 
mourn  it,  but  I  would  also  live  up  to  the 
standard  of  perfection,  as  far  as  I  could,  that 
it  had  developed  in  my  spirit.  I  could  not 
and  would  not  shake  off  the  effect  of  that 
happy  afternoon.  It  taught  me  the  futility 
of  everything  else  except  trying  to  help  oth- 
ers, and  the  value  of  artistic  perfection. 
Through  this  brief  taste  of  harmony,  I  was 
able  to  do  better  work  in  literature  and  art, 
despite  an  overmastering  sadness  in  my 
spirit.  I  was  often  reminded  of  George 
Moore's  words,  'The  sadness  of  life  is  the 
glory  of  art'. 

<:i  decided  to  give  up  my  business  occupa- 
tion and  take  a  trip  to  Paris.  There  I  had 
studied  art  as  a  boy;  it  would  seem  pleas- 
ant to  revive  old  associations  and  memories. 
These  had  been  the  most  vivid  of  my  life, 
up  to  the  time  I  had  been  touched  by  the 
divine,  that  afternoon  in  the  day-coach  on  the 
Pittsburg  express.  In  Paris,  I  found  that 
the  keen  memories  of  the  past  were  pale  and 
dull  compared  to  my  latest  experience.  I  had 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  301 

touched  a  plane  of  living  that  was  far  above 
earthly  custom;  the  past  could  not  help  me 
any  more  than  that  it  emphasized  the  thrill 
of  my  'lost  chord*. 

"One  afternoon,  it  was  lowery  and  over- 
cast, and  a  few  raindrops  were  faKing, 
weather  much  like  that  when  I  had  trav- 
elled with  the  fair  being  whose  blue  eyes 
matched  her  dress,  I  stopped  before  the 
large  show  window  of  a  shop  on  the  Avenue 
de  1'Opera,  a  few  doors  from  the  American 
Consulate.  I  was  compelled  to  stop  by  some 
impulse  within,  it  felt  like  a  minor  species  of 
the  thrill  at  seeing  my  beloved. 

"In  an  instant  my  eyes  were  drawn  to  that 
porcelain  statuette,  which  you  see  here,  the 
replica  in  miniature,  of  my  love  on  the  train. 
There  were  the  blue  eyes,  large  and  of  a  pe- 
culiar shade,  like  electric  blue,  the  shining 
black  hair,  the  pallor  of  the  complexion,  the 
pouting  red  lips,  the  rounded,  dimpled  chin, 
the  alabaster  throat,  the  blue  costume,  in 
color  if  not  in  mode,  like  my  love  had  worn. 

"I  went  into  the  establishment,  and  made 
inquiries,  it  was  as  I  believed,  an  individual 


302  Tales  of  The 

piece.  Beyond  that,  even  the  proprietor 
polite  though  he  was,  could  give  me  no  infor- 
mation. It  had  passed  through  several  hands, 
the  artist  could  hardly  be  traced.  I  bought 
the  little  figure,  and  hurried  with  it  to  my 
hotel.  There  I  opened  the  package,  and 
feasted  my  eyes  for  hours  on  this  perfect 
reproduction  of  features  which  I  had  tried 
to  sketch  on  the  train  with  such  ill-success. 

"Whoever  the  artist,  he  must  surely  have 
seen  this  girl,  or  else  she  had  appeared  to 
him  in  a  mental  presentiment.  It  was  steeped 
in  her  personality.  We  cannot  produce  an 
ideal  without  models ;  this  girl's  individuality 
was  too  marked  to  have  been  evoked  by  an 
artist's  whim.  There  was  some  hidden  con- 
nection between  my  losing  the  fair  original, 
the  finding  of  this  faithful  reproduction.  I 
felt  spiritually  re-awakened  since  my  pur- 
chase on  the  Avenue  de  1'Opera,  It  seemed 
as  if  the  purpose  of  my  trip,  which  had  been 
previously  kept  from  me,  was  accomplished. 

"I  returned  to  Philadelphia  four  weeks 
earlier  than  I  had  intended.  I  would  not 
trust  the  precious  statuette  to  my  trunks  or 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  303 

even  hand  luggage.  I  carried  it  with  me  at 
all  times,  in  a  card-board  box,  wrapped  in 
cotton.  The  package  was  about  the  size  and 
shape  of  one  that  might  contain  a  thermos 
bottle,  so  it  attracted  no  attention.  Never 
did  an  ocean  voyage  seem  shorter,  more 
propitious.  I  was  on  American  soil,  and  in 
my  rooms  in  Philadelphia,  almost  before  I 
realized,  it  was  like  a  'dream  voyage'.  I  had 
often  reasoned  that  if  the  possession  of  this 
inanimate  statuette  gave  me  such  spiritual 
aggrandizement,  how  much  more  would  be 
gained  through  the  original  who  actually 
lived  and  breathed. 

"It  was  some  satisfaction  to  think  that  I 
lived  in  the  same  world,  probably  only  a  hun- 
dred miles  from  her.  I  could  visit  her 
in  my  dreams — at  times.  I  carefully  opened 
the  box,  and  took  out  the  figure,  and  placed 
it  on  a  table,  or  music-stand,  beside  the 
piano.  That  evening,  I  was  in  a  state  of 
reverie  and  introspection,  and  sat  down  at 
the  piano,  and  played  a  few  bars  from  Vin- 
cent d'Indy's  'Chant  de  la  Cloche'.  The  room 
was  dark  save  for  the  light  of  a  lamp,  and 


304  Tales  of  The 

the  dying  embers  of  Lykens  Valley  coal  in 
the  grate.  When  I  struck  the  first  notes,  to 
my  surprise  and  infinite  delight,  the  porce- 
lain statuette  began  moving  towards  me, 
tripping  lightly  and  in  perfect  time  with 
the  music.  Here  was  an  inanimate  object, 
or  one  supposedly  so,  that  was  in  harmony 
with  my  instrument,  with  me.  I  had  always 
believed  that  each  inanimate  object  retains 
a  particle  of  the  soul  of  its  maker;  that  is 
why  some  articles  of  furniture  are  so  hate- 
ful, others  become  prime  favorites.  But  all 
are  more  than  things. 

"When  the  statuette  reached  the  edge  of 
the  table,  and  could  proceed  no  further,  I 
imagined  I  saw  an  appealing  look  in 
those  electric  blue  eyes — but  it  may  only 
have  been  a  light  cast  by  some  chunk  of  the 
soft  coal  splitting  and  sending  up  a  fresh 
blaze.  I  ceased  playing,  and  caught  the  little 
figure  in  my  arms,  holding  it  against  my 
heart.  I  fancied  it  felt  warm  to  my  touch, 
not  frigid  like  porcelain,  but  there  again  I 
may  have  been  deceived  by  the  warmth  of 
the  room.  I  always  detested  the  story 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  305 

of  Pygmalion  and  Galatea.  My  story  was 
not  quite  the  same,  I  loved  the  soul  that 
inspired  this  bit  of  porcelain,  just  as  the 
idolater  is  devoted  to  the  unseen  god  repre- 
sented by  an  image.  I  put  the  statuette 
back  on  the  table,  and  began  playing.  It 
moved  in  perfect  tune;  no  other  objects  in 
the  room  stirred.  It  would  have  been  a 
miracle  if  they  had.  I  was  in  harmony,  in 
rapport  with  the  real  girl  in  electric  blue — 
this  speck  of  her  personality,  in  this  exquis- 
ite bit  of  porcelain,  was  attuned  to  the  vi- 
brations of  my  spirit.  'Are  we  not  made  for 
one  another  like  notes  of  music',  said  Shelley. 
"I  placed  the  figure  in  different  corners  of 
the  room,  it  always  tried  to  come  nearer  to 
me  when  I  played;  it  only  moved  in  unison 
with  the  notes,  it  was  the  'poetry  of  motion'. 
I  felt  that  somewhere,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  black  gulf  of  space  and  time,  the  real 
girl  in  blue  was  waiting  for  me,  perchance 
was  calling  for  me.  At  times  her  spirit 
might  be  crying  out,  but  she  could  cry  until 
she  was  speechless,  there  would  be  no  re- 
sponse. She  might  not  know  what  caused 


306  Tales  of  The 

her  sense  of  soul-loneliness,  her  spiritual  iso- 
lation, her  lack  of  harmony  with  her  sur- 
roundings. She  might  possess  everything 
visible,  yet  lack  some  unseen  element  to  make 
her  happy.  There  is  no  famine  so  racking 
as  soul  hunger.  She  might  never  think  of 
me  during  her  distress ;  doubtless  to  her  con- 
sciousness I  was  a  blank. 

"Through  this  little  statuette  subconscious- 
ly she  was  sending  her  spirit's  message  to  me 
— to  come  to  her — to  awake  in  her  the  lost 
chord;  to  do  it  in  the  present  when  she  was 
young  and  could  enjoy.  'Oh,  if  we  had  met, 
when  life  and  hopes  were  new*  is  a  regret 
voiced  by  many  mature  lovers,  who  come  to- 
gether after  the  fires  of  youth  have  burned 
low. 

"Through  this  little  statuette  my  desire  to 
see  the  original  was  quickened;  it  would  not 
grow  less  until  appeased. 

"In  the  midst  of  these  psychic  experiences 
I  decided  to  retire  for  a  time  to  the  moun- 
tains, to  paint  the  sighing  pines,  the  rocky 
heights,  the  sunsets  of  cerise.  I  happened 
upon  this  particular  spot  by  chance.  The 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  307 

piano  and  the  little  porcelain  figure  came  with 
me;  all  else  is  purely  local,  even  to  the  col- 
ored help.  But  after  I  had  erected  this  bun- 
galow I  found  I  was  too  distracted  to  paint; 
all  my  concentration  was  centered  upon  the 
statuette,  its  inmost  secrets.  At  first  I  feared 
I  was  suffering  from  some  aberration;  then 
a  light  was  shown  me,  I  was  illuminated. 
When  I  played,  it  might  be  from  Vincent 
d'Indy,  Mozart,  Schubert,  Schumann,  Wag- 
ner, or  any  worthy  composer,  the  figure 
moved  with  a  series  of  steps  which  had  cer- 
tain fixed  limitations.  They  were  like  the 
first  spirit  rappings  heard  by  the  Fox  sisters 
in  1848;  an  effort  was  being  made  to  com- 
municate with  me.  I  cannot  believe  that  the 
gfrl  whose  eyes  matched  her  dress  knows 
directly  of  it;  the  statuette  is  merely  an 
antenna  for  subconscious  thought  waves,  a 
central  station  of  telepathy.  Thought  moves 
through  a  system  of  alternating  currents, 
which  must  be  recharged  at  regular  inter- 
vals. My  soul's  want  is  that  young  girl — 
hers  is  me,  even  though  she  may  not  under- 
stand. Nature's  chief  concern  is  keeping 


308  Tales  of  The 

alive  the  race,  to  do  this  best  those  most  con- 
genial must  be  thrown  together  and  by  de- 
sign. 

"The  unseen  powers  are  helping  the  girl 
in  blue  and  me,  a  poor  loving  but  unacquaint- 
ed couple,  to  come  together,  to  be  happy. 
While  I  am  only  just  beginning,  I  will  soon 
fathom  each  vibration  of  that  precious  stat- 
uette. It  will  spell  out  a  name,  and  then  a 
place,  and  I  will  go  there,  and  claim  her  as 
my  own.  I  have  no  fear  that  I  will  be  turned 
away.  Destiny  will  not  be  mocked,  Fate  will 
prevail. 

"I  am  mastering  an  alphabet  now,  it  will 
be  regular  notation,  then  all  will  be  simple. 
'Oh,  dearer  self,  art  thou  like  me  astray'?  I 
do  believe  if  I  had  gone  up  to  her  in  the  car 
that  afternoon,  lady  that  she  was,  she  would 
not  have  repulsed  me,  but  Fate  in  its  modera- 
tion wished  otherwise.  It  must  come  through 
faith  and  struggle  to  be  appreciated.  Per- 
haps that  afternoon  she  could  not  have  in- 
terpreted the  vague  longings  that  sent  the 
color  to  her  smooth,  full  cheeks  when  I 
surprised  her  watching  me.  Perhaps  I  con- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  309 

sidered  my  emotion  idle  curiosity,  and 
blushed  at  it,  when  she  turned  around  sud- 
denly as  I  was  sketching  the  upward,  yet 
round  and  well-moulded  end  of  her  exquisite 
little  nose — like  the  nose  on  that  statuette. 

"Earnest  little  bit  of  porcelain,  it  is  striv- 
ing hard  to  give  me  its  message;  then  I  can 
let  it  fall  to  break  to  pieces  or  put  it  in  a 
cupboard  to  accumulate  dust  or  cobwebs. 
When  it  tells  its  story,  maybe  its  spark  of 
personality  will  vanish,  like  a  ghost  that  has 
delivered  its  message.  Perhaps  there  is  a 
reward  for  inanimate  objects  that  do  their 
duty  well;  theirs  is  a  harder  task  than  be- 
falls any  mortals,  they  must  be  doubly  pa- 
tient, triply  long-suffering. 

"But  everything  great  or  small  is  a  sym- 
bol of  a  thought;  an  exponent  of  a  higher 
value.  Love,  the  force  that  has  upheld  the 
world  from  its  inception  until  to-day,  and 
will  do  so  for  ages  to  come,  is  the  vastest 
power  existing.  To  know  love,  one  must 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  hidden  motive  behind 
material  things.  Finding  it  we  take  on  im- 


3)0 


Tales  of  The  Bald  Eagle  Mountains 


mortality,  for  it  lies  'beyond  the  mountains 
of  the  moon',  its  transit  is  the  Lost  Chord." 


XVI. 

BALD    EAGLE'S    NEST 
(Story  of  Milesburg  Mountain) 


N  ONE  occasion  when  the 
famous  war  chief  Bald 
Eagle,  was  crossing  the 
Buffalo  Valley  he  stopped 
for  the  night  along  Beaver 
Run,  on  a  farm  tenanted  by 
a  certain  Mordecai  Wol- 
ford.  Wolford  who  was  a 
courageous  man,  of  Quaker 
stock,  came  out  of  his  cabin,  and  shook  the 
redman  warmly  by  the  hand,  bidding  him  be 
welcome.  Later  he  presented  him  with  some 
tobacco  and  his  wife  introduced  the  great 
warrior  into  the  mysteries  of  four  kinds  of 
pie.  Not  to  be  outdone  by  her  parents,  Mary 
Wolford,  a  tall,  willowy  slip  of  a  girl,  put 
into  his  hands  the  most  welcome  gift  of  all, 
a  flagon  of  home-made  wine.  Even  if  she 
hadn't  given  him  the  wine,  Bald  Eagle  would 
have  become  intoxicated  at  the  sight  of 

311 


312  Talcs  of  The 

this  rare  young  girl.  At  fourteen  she  had 
far  outgrown  her  years,  yet  was  as  supple, 
and  lithe  as  a  cat-tail.  She  had  simple  and 
unaffected  manners  which  heightened  her 
charm. 

There  was  a  look  of  genuine  courtesy,  yet 
self-reliance  in  her  pale  blue  limestone-col- 
ored eyes,  which  seemed  a  relief  from  the  stol- 
id glare  of  the  squaws.  Her  face  was  a  long 
oval,  but  her  features  preserved  the  mobility 
of  youth.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  the  ac- 
quiline  in  her  well-defined  nose,  which  how- 
ever turned  up  just  a  trifle  at  the  tip,  giving 
vivacity  to  her  otherwise  classic  countenance. 
Her  abundant  hair,  which  was  worn  in  a 
thick  braid  hanging  down  her  back,  was  the 
color  known  to  hair-dressers  as  "medium 
light,"  but  which  really  is  the  lightest  shade 
of  brown.  Her  white  hands  were  tapering 
and  smooth ;  there  was  a  transparency  to  her 
skin  that  betokened  innate  cleanliness,  rather 
than  delicate  health. 

There  was  generally  a  rather  hard  smile 
on  her  thin  curved  lips,  lips  that  never  had 
any  color  in  them,  but  were  indescribably 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  313 

lovely.  She  seemed  to  fancy  the  burly  chief- 
tain, who  was  all  smiles  after  the  maiden  had 
condescended  to  treat  him  to  the  spirits.  She 
had  done  this  without  first  consulting  her 
parents,  and  they  cast  angry  glances 
at  her  when  they  saw  that  she  had  made 
the  impression  of  the  evening.  There 
was  hardly  any  alcohol  in  the  wine,  but  to 
the  elder  Wolfords  at  least,  the  conduct  of 
the  great  chief  became  most  unseemly.  He 
followed  the  couple  and  their  daughter  up  the 
hill  as  far  as  their  cabin  door,  reiterating 
his  thanks  for  his  kindly  reception  in  grand- 
iose, but  badly  phrased  sentences. 

After  he  had  gone  the  mother  turned  on  the 
girl  churlishly,  saying,  "If  that  Indian  goes 
crazy  drunk  to-night  and  burns  down  the 
house,  you  alone  are  to  blame.  I've  a  good 
mind,  big  as  you  are,  to  pound  a  little  com- 
mon sense  into  you  when  we  get  inside." 
But  Mary  merely  smiled  superciliously;  she 
was  big  enough  to  take  care  of  herself,  her 
father  always  interceded  for  her  at  the  criti- 
cal moment.  She  always  was  her  father's 
idol,  but  she  constantly  quarreled  with  her 


314  Tales  of  The 

mother.     Sometimes  the  two  did  not  speak 
for  weeks. 

As  the  Indian  returned  to  his  camp  fire,  he 
began  singing  one  of  Heckewelder's  German 
hymns,  he  had  the  tune  correct  if  not  the 
words,  and  this  was  taken  as  proof  positive 
of  his  intoxication.  But  a  little  thing  like 
this  would  not  have  been  noticed  in  a  white 
man.  All  was  soon  quiet  in  the  encampment, 
and  before  daybreak  the  Indians  had  depart- 
ed. Bald  Eagle  had  passed  a  restless  night. 
Young,  handsome,  powerful  fellow  that  he 
was,  he  had  fallen  in  love,  and  his  passion 
seemed  a  hopeless  one.  If  the  year  had  been 
1764  instead  of  1774,  he  would  have  bound 
•  and  gagged  the  parental  Wolfords,  and 
taken  Mary  away  with  him,  and  she  would 
not  have  bemoaned  her  fate  overmuch. 
But  now  white  settlers  were  a-plenty,  and 
every  act  of  the  redmen  watched  with 
jealous  reprisal.  He  could  not  have  got- 
ten twenty  miles  with  his  fair  prize 
without  being  apprehended.  The  girl  might 
run  away  and  join  him,  if  she  really 
cared  for  him,  but  even  then  his  death  wou^-i 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  315 

be  the  penalty  for  her  voluntary  elopement. 
He  felt  the  barrier  of  race  hatred,  the  knowl- 
edge that  the  whites  regarded  him,  king 
though  he  was,  as  belonging  to  an  inferior 
race. 

If  she  was  older,  he  might  win  her  more 
easily.  Maybe  he  would  meet  her  later ;  both 
were  young  and  could  wait.  But  despite  all 
these  considerations,  Bald  Eagle  was  still  a 
savage.  He  would  have  run  the  risk  of  car- 
rying the  girl  away  had  he  been  sure  of  her 
sentiments  towards  him.  In  an  earlier  day 
that  would  have  mattered  little,  but  now  she 
would  have  to  be  an  accessory  to  a  runa- 
way. He  would  have  tarried  longer  in  the 
meadows  of  Beaver  Run  and  found  out  how 
matters  stood,  but  that  he  was  hurrying  west- 
ward to  get  some  of  his  braves,  who  were  ac- 
cused of  a  highway  robbery,  out  of  the  dan- 
ger zone.  It  was  afterwards  proved  that  two 
white  men  disguised  as  Indians  committed 
the  crime,  which  occurred  on  Lower  Mahan- 
tango  Creek,  but  at  the  present  moment  this 
was  not  known,  and  popular  feeling  ran  high 
against  his  tribesmen. 


316  Tales  of  The 

If  Mary  Wolford  felt  any  interest  in  the 
burly  chieftain,  it  was  confined  to  the  time 
when  she  feasted  her  eyes  upon  his  superb 
dimensions.  It  was  always  that  way  with 
her.  She  liked  best  the  man  she  was  with, 
provided  he  was  good-looking.  She  was  a 
true  woman  in  that  she  could  not  tolerate 
a  homely  or  ill-formed  man,  and  made  no 
effort  to  dissemble.  She  went  to  bed  infat- 
uated with  her  Indian  admirer,  dreaming  all 
night  long  that  they  were  crossing  broad 
rivers  and  high  mountains  together.  The 
next  morning,  when  she  was  routed  out  of 
bed  by  her  mother,  and  told  to  go  out  in 
the  damp  fog  and  "clean  up  the  muss  left 
by  the  Indians",  she  forgot  all  the  romantic 
and  sentimental  incidents. 

That  night  a  handsome  young  Scotch-Irish 
trader,  with  coal  black  hair  and  eyes,  stopped 
at  the  house,  which  was  on  the  trail  to 
Middle  Creek  Valley  and  the  valleys  to  the 
north  and  west,  and  she  further  forgot  her 
infatuation  of  the  night  before.  She  sat 
up  so  long  with  him,  that  she  looked  like  a 
ghost  the  following  morning,  when  she  got  up 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  3 1 7 

to  bid  him  goodbye.  To  her  expanding  con- 
sciousness the  world  seemed  a  passing 
pageant  of  attractive  men,  it  was  hard  to  tell 
which  one  she  could  like  best. 

Once  in  a  while  homely  men  applied  for 
lodgings,  but  if  Mary  came  to  the  door,  she 
always  told  them  that  the  house  was  full. 
Sometimes,  undaunted  they  camped  in  the 
lush-grass  by  the  run,  near  where  Bald  Eagle 
spent  the  night,  but  they  received  scant  cour- 
tesy. She  even  hated  to  have  to  carry  a 
pail  of  milk  to  them.  More  than  one  under- 
sized, bearded  frontiersman  passed  the  word 
on  to  his  kind  that  she  was  a  "very  snippy 
girl."  But  Mary  did  not  care,  it  was  her 
chief  delight  to  snub  the  unattractive.  All 
this  while  she  was  growing  in  beauty  and 
height.  On  her  sixteenth  birthday,  in  Sep- 
tember of  the  memorable  year  of  1776,  she 
stood  against  the  jam  of  the  door  at  the 
cabin,  while  one  of  her  admirers  measured 
her  height  as  five  feet,  eight  and  a  half 
inches. 

In  the  late  summer  of  that  year,  her  father 
having  quarreled  with  the  cantankerous 


318  Tales  of  The 

Scotch-Irishman  who  owned  the  farm,  besides 
having  tired  several  years  before  of  working 
for  somebody  else  when  there  was  so  much 
wild  land  to  be  had  for  the  asking,  decided 
to  move  further  west.  In  the  Bald  Eagle 
Valley,  along  the  foothills  were  numerous 
tracts  which  could  be  "taken  up"  and  in  this 
direction  the  Wolford  family  started. 

The  household  goods  were  loaded  in  a 
heavy  wagon  drawn  by  two  yoke  of  red  and 
white  spotted  bulls.  Mordecai  Wolford  him- 
self walked  by  the  animals  as  driver,  while 
his  wife  and  five  young  children  rode  on  the 
box  seat  of  the  wagon.  Mary,  clad  in  a  buck- 
skin riding-habit,  with  red  bead  trimmings, 
mounted  on  a  handsome  black-grey  colt,  was 
vanguard  of  the  procession.  In  the  rear,  her 
older  brother,  Thaddeus,  assisted  by  four 
savage  dogs,  drove  the  cows,  hogs,  and  sheep. 
Mary  had  her  usual  quota  of  adventures  on 
the  way.  Wherever  the  party  stopped  for 
the  night,  some  young  man  who  had  seen 
her  dashing  equestrienne  figure,  would  make 
pretense  to  come  to  the  camp  and  get  ac- 
quainted. She  left  a  trail  of  promises  from 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  319 

the  mouth  of  White  Deer  Creek  clear  to  the 
mammoth  spring  at  Bellefonte. 

No  one  so  beautiful,  no  one  so  arch  or  co- 
quettish, or  so  brave  and  light-hearted  had 
passed  up  the  valleys  before,  she  was  the 
ideal  of  half  a  hundred  young  mountaineers. 
But  she  had  no  intention  of  marrying  just 
yet,  although  she  was  perfectly  sincere  "at 
the  moment"  in  each  flirtation. 

The  caravan  was  moving  along  famously, 
and  nearly  at  its  destination,  when  Mary's 
spirited  mount  took  fright  at  a  blind  grey 
squirrel  which  ran  between  his  prancing  feet. 
The  poor  little  animal's  eyes  had  both  been 
shot  out,  consequently  he  did  not  notice 
the  approaching  horse  as  he  scurried 
across  the  road  to  a  cornfield.  The  colt  be- 
came unmanageable,  and  started  to  run  away. 
There  was  a  heavy  curb  on  the  bit,  and 
Mary,  perhaps  losing  her  presence  of  mind 
for  a  second,  reined  him  in  too  sharply.  The 
animal  fell  over  backwards,  throwing  the  girl 
off,  rolling  on  her,  badly  bruising  one  of  her 
thighs.  It  was  a  narrow  escape,  she  might  at 
least  have  had  a  broken  leg,  or  been  made  a 


320  Tales  of  The 

cripple  for  life.  It  was  decided  to  pitch  camp 
on  the  scene  of  the  accident  and  remain  there 
for  several  days  until  she  was  all  right  again. 
The  scene  of  the  mishap  was  on  the  south 
bank  of  Bald  Eagle  Creek,  a  half  a  mile  be- 
low the  present  town  of  Milesburg.  It  was 
a  pleasant  place,  a  glade  wooded  with  gigantic 
white  oaks,  through  whose  topmost  lace-like 
branches,  the  sun  was  ever  sending  bright, 
vivid  shafts  of  light,  while  flickers  and  pileat- 
ed  woodpeckers,  and  parrots  echoed  the  chor- 
us of  the  breezes. 

In  the  early  fall  the  woodbine  and  the  §hin- 
hopple  had  turned  to  red,  the  blue-wood  as- 
ters were  everywhere.  By  the  water's  edge 
bloomed  the  bright-hued  Cardinal  flowers.  A 
little  further  up-stream,  and  on  the  oppo- 
site bank,  was  the  "Nest"  of  the  famous  In- 
dian warrior,  Bald  Eagle.  It  consisted  of 
a  giant  hollowed-out  buttonwood  tree,  in- 
side of  which  the  chieftain  used  to  sleep,  ac- 
cording to  his  boast,  in  standing  position. 
There  was  plenty  of  room  for  him  to  have 
reclined  full  length,  even  though  he  was  over 
six  feet  in  height.  An  old  Indian  named 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  321 

Whistle-town  was  always  on  hand  as  a  sort 
of  sentinel.  When  the  Wolf  ords  pitched  camp 
across  the  creek,  the  chief  was  said  to  ba 
absent  on  a  hunting  trip.  The  spot  was  in- 
teresting to  Mary,  as  she  well  recollected  the 
Indian,  and  how  interested  he  had  been  in 
her  two  years  before.  Instinctively  she  felt 
that  he  would  like  her  better  now.  Already 
she  had  been  loved  by  several  young  men  of 
consequence,  and  a  noted  Indian  chief  was 
a  decided  divertissement. 

She  was  disappointed  that  Bald  Eagle  was 
away,  she  said  she  would  give  almost  any- 
thing to  see  him  again.  "You  didn't  feel 
that  way",  snapped  her  mother,  "when  you 
had  to  clean  up  that  pile  of  bones  and  en- 
trails he  left  at  our  place  two  years  ago." 
Mary  made  no  reply.  She  had  forgotten 
everything  except  her  conquest  of  the  sav- 
age's heart.  A  couple  of  mornings  after  their 
arrival,  Thaddeus  appeared  with  the  news 
that  Bald  Eagle  had  returned.  Whether  old 
Whistle-town  had  slipped  away  and  informed 
his  chief  that  there  was  a  party  of  white 
people  in  the  neighborhood,  or  he  had  come 


322  Tales  of  The 

back  unintentionally,  was  never  explained. 
When  he  found  that  it  was  the  Wolford  fam- 
ny  who  were  camping  at  his  very  door,  his 
joy  knew  no  bounds.  He  at  once  crossed  the 
stream,  looking  like  a  conquering  viking  as 
he  stepped  from  his  canoe.  He  presented 
them  with  a  saddle  of  venison  and  a  string 
of  water-birds.  He  seemed  delighted  to  meet 
Mary  once  more,  commenting  volubly  upon 
her  increased  height,  and  general  attractive- 
ness. He  opened  a  package  of  beaver  skins, 
carefully  saved  from  the  winter  before,  be- 
stowing them  upon  her  with  much  eclat. 

Temporarily  Mary  was  smitten  again  by 
the  charms  of  the  stalwart  redman.  All  other 
loves  were  for  the  nonce  forgotten.  For  the 
two  succeeding  days  Bald  Eagle  was  con- 
stantly at  the  Wolford  camp.  He  was  al- 
ways bearing  gifts,  or  having  his  henchmen 
appear  with  unexpected  presents,  or  "sur- 
prises." Mary's  parents  did  not  know  how 
to  take  his  conduct,  but  concluded  to  make 
the  best  of  matters  until  they  could  move  on 
to  their  ultimate  destination.  For  this  rea- 
son an  early  date  was  set  for  departure. 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  323 

\Vhen  the  great  chief  learned  this,  he  said 
he  would  like  to  entertain  the  family  at  a 
supper,  at  the  Nest,  the  evening  before  they 
left.  He  wanted  to  give  them  an  idea  how 
well  an  Indian  could  live  in  the  wilderness 
and  entertain.  Col.  Samuel  Hunter  had  been 
pleased  by  his  hospitality,  as  had  other  digni- 
taries. The  invitation  was  cheerfully  ac- 
cepted, as  the  entire  family  wished  to  wind 
up  their  stay  as  pleasantly  as  possible.  Be- 
sides there  was  no  telling  when  the  great  war 
chief's  friendship  might  stand  them  in  good 
stead.  Mary  had  confided  to  her  father  that 
she  did  not  love  Bald  Eagle,  so  he  was  re- 
assured that  there  was  no  danger  of  his  hav- 
ing a  dusky  son-in-law.  The  supper  was 
scheduled  to  commence  an  hour  before  sun- 
down, which  meant  about  five  o'clock. 

Bald  Eagle  sent  out  hunters  and  fishermen 
to  provide  the  season's  delicacies  for  the  re- 
past, while  he  himself  built  a  bower  gar- 
landed with  wild  flowers  and  woodbine  over 
the  spot  where  it  was  to  take  place.  On  the 
morning  of  the  promised  festival,  a  visitor 
in  a  chestnut-bark  canoe,  appeared  at  Wol- 


326  Tales  of  The 

iiig  been  bought  the  day  that  she  had  seen 
his  namesake. 

Now  when  the  "Young  Captain  of  the  Sus- 
quehanna"  appeared  at  the  camp,  whether  by 
accident  or  design,  it  was  as  hard  to  clear 
this  up  as  Bald  Eagle's  sudden  appearance, 
she  could  indulge  her  romantic  fancy  to  the 
utmost.  James  seemed  happiness  personi- 
fied to  be  with  her,  and  after  dinner  proposed 
that  they  take  a  canoeing  trip  up-stream  to- 
wards the  site  of  the  present  town  of  Belle- 
fonte.  Spring  Creek,  which  flows  from  that 
direction,  joins  with  the  Bald  Eagle,  a  short 
distance  above  the  "Nest."  It  was  an  en- 
ticing invitation,  especially  as  he  promised  to 
have  her  back  at  camp  in  a  couple  of  hours. 
He  was  informed  of  the  party,  and  said  he 
would  attend  if  invited.  Just  as  the  pair  were 
starting  away,  Bald  Eagle,  who  had  been 
watching  them  from  the  opposite  bank,  hur- 
ried across  in  his  skiff,  arriving  in  time  to  ex- 
tend a  cordial  invitation  to  the  young  path- 
finder. Brady  accepted  smilingly,  showing 
his  white  teeth,  his  Irish  blue  eyes  dancing 
with  health  and  pleasure. 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  327 

But  Mordecai  Wolford  declared  afterwards 
that  he  noticed  an  ugly  scowl  in  the  war 
chief's  face  as  he  re-entered  his  canoe.  He 
watched  the  young  couple  until  they  were  out 
of  sight,  and  then  resumed  his  superintend- 
ence of  the  preparations  for  the  feast.  Piles 
of  rich-pine  were  stacked  at  regular  inter- 
vals, which  meant  that  by  the  light  of  the 
camp-fire,  a  spectacular  ghost-dance,  a  rare 
honor  to  white  guests,  was  to  be  enacted.  All 
the  Indians  from  miles  around  were  drawn 
to  the  scene  by  the  extraordinary  prepara- 
tions, and  stood  about  in  groups  with  awe 
and  interest  written  in  their  generally  listless 
faces.  It  was  one  o'clock  when  the  canoeists 
left,  three  o'clock  rolled  around,  and  they  had 
not  hove  in  sight.  Bald  Eagle  who  was  keep- 
ing count  of  the  time  by  the  sun  began  to  get 
uneasy,  and  paced  up  and  down  the  bank, 
seemingly  forgetful  of  his  horde  of  observers. 
Four  o'clock  came,  then  five,  and  soon  after 
the  sun  set  with  all  its  autumnal  splendor 
behind  the  Alleghanies.  By  the  savory  odors 
rising  from  the  fires,  supper  was  ready  to 


328  Tales  of  The 

be  served,  but  absent  was  the  fair  guest  of 
honor. 

At  six-thirty  Bald  Eagle  paddled  across  the 
creek,  and  told  Mary's  parents  that  the  re- 
past would  begin  as  soon  as  she  returned.  He 
said  he  was  certain  there  had  been  some  mis- 
take, that  she  would  be  back  before  dark.  It 
seemed  that  darkness  set  in  with  extra  alac- 
rity that  night,  though  it  was  clear,  and  moon- 
light. As  Bald  Eagle,  disconsolate  and  gaunt, 
stood  by  the  shore,  gazing  up  the  stream  into 
the  impenetrable  gloom,  the  very  katydids 
seemed  to  mock  him  with  their  metallic  sing- 
ing. It  was  the  only  thing  that  broke  the 
rapt  silence  of  the  camp  that  night.  The 
spirit-dancers  as  they  waited  shifted  uneasily 
from  foot  to  foot,  but  they  made  no  comment. 

Sometime  towards  midnight  Bald  Eagle, 
humbled  and  mortified  to  the  quick,  slunk  into 
his  Nest,  and  the  retainers  dropped  out  of 
sight  among  the  logs  and  vines.  Probably  an 
hour  after  his  disappearance,  a  canoe  drifted 
into  view;  it  contained  Mary  Wolford  and 
James  Brady.  Sheepishly  the  young  girl  got 
out  of  it,  and  slipped  into  her  lean-to  for 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  329 

the  remainder  of  the  night.  The  young  man 
drew  his  boat  on  dry  land  and  slept  in  it. 
In  the  morning  he  heard  violent  quarreling 
among  the  Wolfords,  and  hastened  to  the 
scene.  He  arrived  in  time  to  help  explain 
that  three  miles  up  stream  they  had  run  into 
a  submerged  rock,  which  stove  a  big  hole 
in  the  canoe.  He  had  difficulty  in  getting 
Mary  to  shore  in  safety;  it  took  until  long 
past  dark  to  repair  the  leak.  They  had  re- 
turned as  quickly  as  they  could,  none  regret- 
ted more  than  he  that  Mary  had  been  forced 
to  miss  Chief  Bald  Eagle's  supper  and  ghost- 
dance.  They  could  see  the  place  where  he 
had  put  the  patch  in  the  canoe,  if  they  want- 
ed further  proofs.  This  silenced  the  elder 
Wolfords,  although  Mary  looked  very  pale 
and  penitent.  To  clinch  the  matter,  young 
Brady  who  was  every  inch  a  gentleman 
crossed  the  creek,  and  visited  Bald  Eagle  at 
his  Nest,  expressing  his  heartfelt  apologies 
at  keeping  the  guest  of  honor  from  his  party, 
and  for  his  own  unavoidable  absence.  The 
chief  took  the  apology  with  apparent  good 


330  Tales  of  The 

will,  but  there  rankled  a  hate  in  his  heart, 
which  he  cherished  to  his  dying  day. 

The  Wolford  party  went  their  way,  and 
Brady,  abandoning  his  canoe,  as  he  intended, 
continued  his  mission  on  foot  across  the  Al- 
leghanies.  The  only  outward  sign  of  pique 
was  that  Bald  Eagle  did  not  come  across  the 
creek  to  bid  Mary  goodbye,  although  he  sig- 
nalled to  her  in  Indian  fashion,  as  the  cara- 
van moved  along  the  trail  on  the  southern 
shore.  For  some  reason  young  Brady  never 
visited  Mary  again,  though  she  did  not  want 
for  lovers. 

Two  years  later,  during  harvest  James 
Brady,  then  a  Captain,  was  guarding  some 
cradlers  who  were  at  work  in  a  field  near  the 
mouth  of  Loyalsock  Creek.  A  party  of  In- 
dians fired  on  him,  wounding  him,  and  in  the 
struggle  which  ensued  he  was  knocked  down 
with  a  blow  from  a  tomahawk,  stabbed  by  a 
spear,  and  scalped.  After  scalping  him  one 
of  the  Indians,  with  hate  in  his  face,  drove  a 
tomahawk  four  times  into  his  skull.  Despite 
all  these  tortures  his  spirit  held  steadfast  to 
the  body,  and  he  lived  five  days.  Just  before 
he  expired  he  regained  consciousness,  and 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains 


described  the  attack  with  great  minuteness. 
The  Indians  were  of  the  Seneca  tribe,  he  said, 
and  one  of  them  whom  he  personally  knew 
was  the  great  chief  Bald  Eagle.  Why  this 
celebrated  Indian  had  taken  such  an  active 
part  in  the  horrible  mutilation  of  this  splen- 
did young  patriot  would  seem  a  mystery,  but 
for  this  story  of  Mary  Wolf ord. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  humiliation  that  he  felt 
when  she  absented  herself  from  his  party  in 
company  with  the  "Young  Captain"  that 
caused  him  to  brood  and  repine  until  noth- 
ing but  revenge  "long  and  deep"  would  suf- 
fice. 

But  one  death  meant  another,  others  must 
have  revenge.  Captain  Samuel  Brady,  James' 
older  brother,  several  years  later,  noticed  a 
large  party  of  Senecas  marching  along  the 
Alleghany  River  on  their  way  to  Bald  Eagle's 
Nest.  Brady  recognized  Bald  Eagle,  who  was 
in  the  lead,  and  fired  at  him,  killing  him  in- 
stantly, the  bullet  having  pierced  his  heart. 
But  that  member  had  been  sorely  wounded 
long  before,  it  was  his  vulnerable  point,  ever 
since  he  first  looked  into  the  pale  blue  eyes, 
cold  as  limstone,  of  Mary  Wolford. 


XVII. 

THE  RUNNING  RACE 
(Story  of  Lookout  Mountain) 


OU  must  meet  Agnes  Letort." 
These  were  almost  the  first 
words  that  greeted  Martin 
Fryer  upon  his  arrival  at 
his  uncle's  home  in  Phila- 
delphia. They  were  ad- 
dressed to  him  in  a  chor- 
us by  his  three  cousins, 
girls  ranging  in  age  from 
fifteen  to  twenty.  Martin  was  nearly  twenty- 
one,  and  already  was  quite  experienced  with 
girls,  the  simple  country  maids  of  Early  s- 
burg.  Agnes,  it  was  explained  to  him,  was 
a  very  beautiful  girl  of  sixteen,  who  had 
moved  into  the  house  directly  across  the 
street.  Martin  Fryer's  uncle  was  the  propri- 
etor of  a  large  livery  and  sales  stable;  his 
home  was  next  door  to  the  big  brick  reposi- 
tory. 
332 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  333 

The  afternoon  of  the  young  man's  arrival 
he  went  for  a  stroll  with  his  cousins.  They 
had  gone  hardly  half  a  square  when  Agnes 
Letort,  dressed  all  in  white,  hove  in  sight 
across  the  way.  When  she  was  opposite,  the 
girls  called  to  her  to  wait  until  they  brought 
their  cousin,  who  had  come  on  a  visit,  over 
to  meet  her.  But  Agnes  made  a  motion  with 
her  hand  as  if  she  was  in  too  great  a  hurry. 
So  the  first  attempt  at  "getting  acquainted" 
ended  in  failure. 

Just  before  supper  one  of  the  girls  ran 
across  to  Agnes's  house,  and  asked  her  to 
come  and  spend  the  evening,  to  meet  the 
young  stranger.  Agnes,  it  was  said,  was  gra- 
cious at  the  time,  replied  that  she  would  be 
delighted  to  come  over,  only  too  happy  to 
meet  him.  It  was  a  warm  evening,  so  the 
family  sat  on  the  front  steps  until  dark,  but 
saw  no  signs  of  Agnes.  About  eight-thirty 
one  of  the  girls  telephoned,  but  was  told  that 
Agnes  had  gone  out  with  a  girl  friend.  The 
next  morning  the  girls  met  her  on  the  street, 
and  she  apologized  for  not  keeping  her  prom- 
ise, but  said  she  had  an  earlier  engagement 


334  Tales  of  The 

with  a  girl  friend,  about  which  she  had  for- 
gotten. She  promised  to  come  to  call  that 
evening,  if  they  would  permit  her.  She  was 
so  very  pretty  that  she  was  instantly  for- 
given, and  her  promised  visit  welcomed.  She 
did  put  in  an  appearance  that  night,  bright 
and  early.  She  made  quite  a  contrast  to  the 
youth  whom  she  was  expected  to  charm.  Of 
medium  height,  slight,  and  shapely,  with  an 
oval  face,  pale  rather  than  pink,  she  had  full 
grey  eyes,  with  black  lashes  and  brows,  a 
nose  which  but  for  the  fine  straight  line  of 
the  bridge,  might  have  been  called  retrousse, 
rather  full  lips,  and  a  wealth  of  ash-brown 
hair,  which  curled  and  crinkled  like  spun- 
sugar.  She  exhibited  a  genial  friendly  man- 
ner when  she  wanted  to,  a  manner  which 
would  disarm  the  most  hostile  critic.  She 
was  in  a  word  chic,  and  up  to  date,  a  belle 
bourgeoise. 

Martin  Fryer,  on  the  other  hand,  was  tall, 
gawky,  and  stoop-shouldered;  his  nose  was 
long  and  beaked,  his  pale  blue  eyes  were 
small,  his  red-hair  hung  down  on  his  coat 
collar.  But  there  was  a  look  of  intelligence 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  335 

in  his  face,  showing  the  latent  power,  that 
makes  every  backwoods  youth  a  possible 
Judge,  Congressman,  or  multi-millionaire. 

He  was  ill  at  ease  with  Agnes,  and  she 
made  no  effort  to  interest  him.  Her  general 
conversation  was  witty,  and  bubbling  over 
with  the  exuberance  of  youth,  but  she  had 
few  words  for  the  young  man.  He  was  actu- 
ally glad  when  she  left.  The  door  was  scarce- 
ly closed  when  the  girls,  all  three  at  once, 
began  asking  him  how  he  liked  her.  He  had 
a  veneration  for  truth,  but  on  this  occasion 
said  he  liked  her  very  much.  Secretly  he 
was  angry  at  her  for  her  indifference,  but  it 
piqued  him  to  the  extent  of  arousing  a  perma- 
nent interest. 

During  the  remainder  of  his  visit  he  saw 
her  perhaps  half  a  dozen  times,  always  when 
others  were  present.  He  probably  liked  her 
less  when  he  left  than  he  did  the  night  she 
called,  her  indifference  was  mortifying.  She 
was  so  very  pretty  that  it  made  him  feel 
worse.  He  would  rather  have  had  one  kind 
word  from  her  than  a  deluge  of  kisses  from 
all  the  belles  of  Earlysburg.  He  put  her 


336  Tales  of  The 

down  as  "pert  and  snippy,"  but  secretly 
wished  that  she  had  cared  for  him. 

After  he  got  home  he  used  to  lie  awake 
nights  imagining  that  he  had  met  her  again 
smd  her  manner  had  changed.  He  dreamed 
c  *  her  occasionally,  that  she  was  in  his  arms, 
and  telling  him  that  she  loved  him.  Between 
waking  fancies  and  dreams  she  was  a  hard 
proposition  to  forget.  Once  he  made  bold  to 
send  her  a  card  with  a  picture  of  a  Thanks- 
giving turkey  on  it.  He  went  to  the  post- 
office  every  day  for  two  weeks,  pestering  the 
old  postmaster  with  inquiries  for  "mail,"  a 
thing  he  had  never  done  before. 

During  the  winter,  his  father  who  was  a 
prosperous  farmer  and  stockman,  fell  through 
a  silo,  and  was  seriously  injured.  This  put 
the  management  of  the  farm  on  young  Mar- 
tin, which  developed  him  quicker  in  a  few 
months  than  ever  before  in  his  life.  In  the 
spring  the  old  man  said  he  would  like  the 
race-horses  campaigned  just  the  same  as 
usual,  Martin  must  handle  them,  must  take 
them  on  the  fair  circuit. 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  337 

Old  Jacob  Fryer  had  loved  the  "runners" 
ever  since  the  days  when  as  a  lad  of  twelve 
he  had  run  away  from  home  and  become  an 
exercise  boy  at  the  historic  course  at  Mon- 
mouth  Park,  in  New  Jersey.  He  was  very 
proud  of  a  photograph  which  had  been  taken 
of  him,  perched  on  the  back  of  the  mighty 
Longfellow,  with  the  venerable  John  Harper, 
holding  the  bridle.  Later  he  had  gone  back 
to  the  farm  in  Central  Pennsylvania,  but 
again  yielded  to  the  old  desire,  and  for  a  sea- 
son campaigned  an  attenuated  sprinter  named 
Guy  Grey,  at  Gloucester.  Then  after  a  lapse  of 
nearly  a  decade  he  bought  three  yearlings 
at  one  of  the  Rancocas  sales  in  West  Philadel- 
phia. One  of  them,  a  son  of  the  gallant  Loca- 
hatchee  and  Bow  Bells,  he  named  Lights  o* 
London,  a  combination  of  the  dam's  name  and 
a  melodrama  which  he  had  witnessed  one 
night  in  the  Quaker  City.  The  colt  never 
grew  to  be  tall,  but  was  nicely  turned,  and 
save  for  a  white  face,  and  two  white  hind 
feet,  was  black  as  ink.  "If  I  had  time  I'd  take 
him  to  the  big  tracks",  the  old  man  was  con- 
tinually saying.  With  the  two  others,  Quaker 


338  Tales  of  The 

Girl  and  Creole,  he  followed  the  county  fair 
tracks  for  several  years.  Creole  was  a  good 
half  mile  and  repeat  horse,  but  Lights  o'  Lon- 
don excelled  in  distance  races.  Quaker  Girl 
was  good  to  get  a  place  in  the  half  mile 
events,  but  seldom  came  in  a  winner. 

Jacob  Fryer  was  proud  of  Lights  o'  Lon- 
don, and  contrary  to  his  hidebound  custom 
kept  him  entire.  This  gave  him  a  dash  and 
brilliancy  and  a  lustre  to  his  coat  that  would 
not  have  been  his  as  a  gelding.  It  seems 
a  hideous  confession  of  man's  weakness  to 
seek  to  control  animals  by  depriving  them  of 
sex.  As  a  five-year  old  he  was  at  his  best, 
winning  eleven  out  of  fourteen  starts,  going 
several  miles  better  than  1.45. 

This  was  the  season  before  the  old  man 
met  with  his  accident.  Lights  o'  London  as 
a  six  year  old  was  to  be  campaigned  by  the 
son.  The  young  man  felt  the  responsibility 
thrust  upon  him ;  he  was  determined  to  do  his 
best  by  his  father's  horses.  He  had  watched 
his  training  methods,  so  knew  some  of  the 
tricks  of  the  game.  Besides  the  horses  were 
not  hard  to  manage;  they  knew  what  was  ex- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  339 

pected  of  them  almost  as  much  as  if  they 
were  human. 

The  first  start  was  made  at  the  mid-sum- 
mer fair  at  Milton.  Lights  o'  London  was 
victorious,  beating  out  his  old-time  rival  Mat- 
ador, in  a  driving  finish,  on  a  heavy  track 
in  1 .52.  Quaker  Girl  and  Creole  finished  sec- 
ond and  third  to  Little  Christmas  in  the  half 
mile  heat  race.  Old  man  Fryer  was  in  the 
grandstand,  and  tried  to  leap  for  joy  when 
he  saw  how  well  the  horses  performed.  He 
could  have  stood  a  total  crop  failure  better 
than  the  downfall  of  his  beloved  colors,  green 
cap,  green  shirt,  dark  green  and  white 
check  sleeves.  After  Milton  they  raced  at 
Hughesville,  Bloomsburg,  Lewisburg,  Carl- 
isle, York,  and  Altoona.  Out  of  seven  starts, 
Lights  o'  London  was  first  five  times,  Mata- 
dor beating  him  once,  and  Lois  Cavanaugh 
once.  Quaker  Girl  and  Creole  did  not  do  so 
well. 

The  season  was  to  be  ended,  almost  on  home 
ground,  at  the  fair  held  at  the  picturesque 
track  at  the  base  of  the  towering  Lookout 
Mountain,  one  of  the  landmarks  of  the  Bald 


340  Tales  of  The 

Eagle  range.  Running  races  were  all  the 
vogue  that  year;  interest  in  them  is  fitful  in 
Central  Pennsylvania,  although  they  were  the 
earliest  form  of  sport  of  the  better  class 
of  settlers.  Penn's  Valley  still  rankles  over 
the  defeat  two  thirds  of  a  century  ago  of 
the  Kentucky  thoroughbred  owned  by  the  Pot- 
ter boys  of  Potter's  Fort,  which  was  "taken 
into  camp"  by  the  pride  of  the  West  Branch 
Valley  owned  by  "Johnny"  Myers,  on  the 
famous  course  which  extended  from  one  end 
to  the  other  of  the  Big  Island,  below  Lock 
Haven.  The  victory  of  Sea  Turtle,  a  Jersey 
Shore  flyer,  in  a  twelve  mile  race  over  the 
champions  of  Williamsport  and  Shamokin  is 
still  remembered  by  the  old  people. 

The  fair  at  Lookout  Mountain  was  sched- 
uled to  last  four  days,  with  one  running  race 
each  day.  The  mile  dash,  in  which  Lights  o' 
London  was  entered,  was  to  take  place  on 
the  opening  day. 

Martin  Fryer,  riding  in  the  box-car 
with  his  charges,  never  forgot  the  sight 
which  greeted  his  eyes  that  bright  Oc- 
tober morning,  as  he  was  being  shunted  into 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  341 

the  fair  grounds  from  Milesburg.  The  In- 
dian Summer  haze  was  in  the  air,  a  dense  fog 
still  rested  in  the  more  inaccessible  hollows 
and  over  the  pinnacles  of  the  mountains.  The 
gums  and  hickories  were  vividly  tinted,  and 
as  if  to  keep  the  oaks  in  fashion,  the  Virginia 
creeper  was  garlanding  them  with  scarlet.  A 
hoar-frost  was  on  the  grass,  which  sparkled 
when  the  sun-rays  touched  it.  There  was  a 
tang  to  the  atmosphere,  an  invigorating  odor 
of  the  frost-bitten  leaves.  Along  the  fence- 
corners  bloomed  the  blue-wood  asters;  the 
golden  rod  was  paling,  like  blonde  beauties 
growing  grey.  A  pair  of  crows,  strutting 
across  the  infield,  cawed  loudly  as  they  took 
to  leisurely  flight  upon  the  near  approach 
of  the  freight  train.  Once  or  twice  the  not 
disagreeable  smell  of  soft-coal  smoke  was 
wafted  into  the  car  from  the  engine.  The 
train  moved  quite  a  distance  past  the  fair 
grounds  in  order  to  back  into  the  switch, 
going  by  a  line  of  workmen's  houses,  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  town. 

On  the  back  porch  of  one  of  these  cottages, 
so  near  to  the  car  that  he  could  almost  have 


342  Tales  of  The 

shaken  hands  with  her,  Martin  saw  a  young 
girl  bending  over  a  washtub  for  it  was  Mon- 
day morning.  The  steam  from  the  hot  suds 
was  rising  up  about  her  like  the  fog  on  Look- 
out Mountain.  Her  sleeves  were  rolled  up, 
her  pretty  arms  and  hands  were  "turkey 
red."  There  was  something  in  the  texture 
of  her  ash-brown,  kinky  hair,  her  round  face, 
which  seemed  familiar.  Suddenly  recollect- 
ing her  he  called  out  "Hello  there,  Miss  Le- 
tort,  what  are  you  doing  in  this  part  of  the 
country?"  Before  she  could  answer,  the  car 
had  moved  on,  but  he  was  sure  that  she  recog- 
nized him.  When  they  backed  past  the  house, 
she  was  on  the  watch,  and  waved  to  him,  call- 
ing "Hello,  Mister  Fryer,  I'm  living  here 
now,  come  to  see  me."  She  seemed  so  genu- 
inely pleased  to  greet  him  that  Martin  mut- 
tered to  himself  "a  new  Agnes,  my  dreams 
maybe  are  coming  true." 

He  could  hardly  wait  to  get  his  string  un- 
loaded and  ensconced  in  their  boxes  and  get 
his  dinner  before  brushing  himself  up  to  call 
on  the  fair  charmer.  What  had  brought  her 
to  this  part  of  Pennsylvania?  Conld  it  be 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  343 

that  after  all  she  was  married,  and  his  visit 
would  be  that  much  time  wasted.  He  was 
not  sufficiently  evolved  to  understand  such  an 
unnatural  state  of  affairs  as  being  attentive 
to  a  married  woman.  He  was  sincere  and 
if  he  went  to  see  her  it  was  because  he  was 
genuinely  fond  of  her,  he  could  forgive  tnt 
past. 

When  he  reached  the  humble  home,  a  very 
differently  attired  young  woman  came  to  the 
door.  Evidently,  like  himself,  she  had  been 
preparing  for  the  visit,  almost  from  the  mo- 
ment of  their  unconventional  encounter.  She 
wore  a  neatly  fitting  suit  of  some  pale  brown 
material,  there  were  traces  of  powder  on  her 
young  face,  her  frizzy  hair  was  neatly  parted 
in  the  middle,  her  hands  were  white,  her  fin- 
ger-nails polished.  Her  attitude  was  so 
changed,  that  for  an  instant  he  imagined  he 
must  be  calling  on  the  wrong  girl.  It  was 
the  suddenness  of  their  meeting,  or  perhaps 
an  improvement  in  his  appearance  that  was 
responsible  for  the  genial  welcome.  There 
were  no  "secondary"  or  "underlying"  motives 
in  a  nature  as  frank  as  Agnes's.  Her  great- 


541  Tales  of  The 

est  fault  was  that  she  was  totally  lacking  in 
dissembling.  She  would  almost  tell  a  homely 
man  to  his  face  that  he  was  homely,  there- 
fore she  did  not  like  him.  She  explained  that 
her  father  had  secured  a  good  position  in  the 
iron  furnace;  hence  her  new  place  of  resi- 
dence. 

It  was  two  o'clock  when  Martin  arrived 
at  the  Letort  cottage ;  supper  was  announced 
when  he  started  to  leave.  He  had  been  in- 
vited to  remain,  but  thought  it  best  not  to 
extend  his  "first  call"  too  long.  When  he 
left  he  arranged  to  come  back  and  spend  the 
following  evening. 

His  brain  was  in  a  whirl  that  night  as 
he  walked  along  the  ties  to  his  lodgings  near 
the  stables. 

All  the  next  day  was  spent  preparing 
Lights  o'  London  for  Wednesday's  run- 
ning race.  His  most  dangerous  adversary 
Matador,  a  game  old  stag,  was  also  out  on 
the  track.  He  was  a  chocolate  colored  ani- 
mal, technically  a  "dark  chestnut,"  and  had 
raced  his  way  across  the  continent  from  San 
Francisco  to  Fort  Erie,  finding  his  "ultimate 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  345 

islands"  on  the  fair  circuit.  The  wiseacres 
predicted  that  it  would  be  a  "toss-up"  be- 
tween Lights  o'  London  and  Matador;  there 
was  a  rumor  of  as  many  as  four  other  en- 
tries, but  they  didn't  count. 

In  the  early  evening,  when  Martin  was  on 
his  way  to  the  boarding  house  for  supper,  he 
noticed  a  running  horse  being  unloaded  from 
a  box-car.  The  animal  was  blanketed  and 
hooded,  but  from  the  long  light-colored  tail 
which  trailed  the  ground,  was  either  a  sor- 
rel or  a  light  bay.  There  were  colored  boys 
on  each  side  of  his  head  leading  him  down 
the  incline,  but  this  indicated  his  value,  rather 
than  fractiousness.  The  young  man  watched 
the  proceeding  for  a  few  minutes,  trying  to 
identify  the  horse,  but  it  seemed  a  complete 
stranger. 

After  supper  he  hurried  to  Agnes's  home, 
spending  a  most  delightful  evening.  He  lit- 
erally "made  up  for  lost  time,"  as  he  held 
her  in  his  arms  for  a  full  fifteen  minutes,  in- 
side the  closed  door,  before  he  departed.  The 
couple  had  come  to  an  understanding.  Ag- 
nes, coquettish  to  the  last,  said  that  she  would 


346  Tales  of  The 

marry  him  if  his  horse  won  the  race.  She 
would  get  her  father  to  take  her  to  the  track. 
Her  parents  were  violently  opposed  to  her 
marrying  so  young,  besides  she  was  an  only 
child.  But  she  could  wed  clandestinely. 

After  the  race,  if  the  right  horse  was  win- 
ner, she  would  slip  away  and  meet  her  lover 
on  the  flat  rock  on  the  summit  of  Lookout 
Mountain.  From  there  they  could  climb  down 
to  Snow  Shoe  Intersection,  and  board  a  train 
which  would  soon  have  them  in  Clearfield 
County.  There  they  could  "take  out  lincense" 
and  get  married.  It  sounded  very  romantic, 
so  much  so  that  Martin  forgot  the  many  in- 
superable difficulties.  There  probably  was  no 
night  train  from  the  Intersection  to  Snow 
Shoe.  If  there  was,  they  could  not  get  a 
Beech  Creek  train  for  Clearfield  until  the 
next  morning;  by  that  time  the  whole  coun- 
try would  be  aroused.  Central  Pennsylvania 
is  hardly  adapted  for  a  Gretna  Green. 

Martin  returned  to  his  lodgings,  feeling 
really  happy  for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  At 
daybreak  Lights  o'  London  breezed  over  the 
course  in  fine  fettle;  Martin  secretly  felt 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  347 

that  the  horse  had  never  gone  so  well.  Mata- 
dor looked  peaked  and  hide-bound,  there  seem- 
ed an  almost  rheumatic  stiffness  to  his  joints. 
As  Lights  o'  London  was  being  put  in  his 
box,  the  "strange"  horse  was  brought  out 
for  his  gallop.  Martin  had  a  good  look  at 
him.  First  of  all  he  was  not  a  big  horse,  he 
was  built  on  rather  fine  lines.  He  was  a 
light-bay  or  fulvous  color,  Iiis  tail  was  very 
long,  trailing  the  dust,  when  he  spread  out 
for  action.  There  were  black  tips  on  his  ears, 
and  a  black  streak  running  from  the  top  of  his 
nose  to  the  tip  of  his  tail.  He  was  ridden  by 
a  small,  sandy-haired  white  boy,  whom  the 
negro  lads  called  Crackers.  One  of  the  col- 
ored boys  led  the  horse  through  the  gate  into 
the  track,  and  from  there  he  broke  into  an 
easy  canter,  sweeping  along  the  course  with 
much  the  sliding  movement  of  a  fox.  Martin 
asked  the  colored  lad  who  the  unknown  horse 
might  be.  "Why  dat's  a  Kaintucky  hoss,  mis- 
tah,  his  name  am  Indian  Fields,  he's  by  de  ole 
champeen  Falsetto,  dam  Indian  Apple  by  old 
Shiloh.  He  haint  nebber  raced  befo',  he's 
only  a  four  yah  old,  an'  a  stud." 


348  Tales  of  The 

Martin,  encouraged  by  such  a  flow  of  par- 
ticulars, inquired  the  name  of  the  owner. 
"Why,  dat's  Mistah  Will  Buckler's  hoss,  he's 
a  young  Kaintucky  gemmen  what  holds  down 
er  big  job  in  Pittsburg;  Andy  Essenwine's 
trainin'  him."  None  of  the  names  were  fa- 
miliar, and  Martin  had  a  "sneaking  notion" 
that  this  colt,  and  not  Matador  was  the  com- 
petitor to  be  afraid  of. 

The  day  was  sunshiny  and  cool,  there  was 
an  enormous  attendance  at  the  fair.  Early  in 
the  afternoon  Martin  saw  Agnes  and  her 
father  at  one  of  the  side  shows;  she  was  on 
the  grounds,  true  to  her  promise.  She  whis- 
pered to  her  lover  that  she  was  ready  to  climb 
old  Lookout,  in  case  his  colors  flashed  in  front. 
She  wished  they  would.  He  was  so  hopeful 
of  victory  that  he  arranged  with  his  exercise 
boy,  Linn  McGrady,  to  ship  back  to  Earlys- 
burg  that  evening  "in  case  he  should  be  called 
away  on  urgent  business." 

It  was  four  o'clock  when  the  gong  sounded 
calling  out  the  entries  for  the  mile  running 
race.  It  was  a  pretty  sight  to  see  them  pa- 
rade to  the  post,  the  bright  colors  gleaming 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  349 

in  the  waning  sunlight.  From  a  far  corner 
of  the  grounds  came  the  strains  of  an  auto- 
matic piano.  First  came  Matador,  dark  chest- 
nut, sixteen  hands,  lank,  rangy;  he  was  rid- 
den by  a  white  boy,  the  colors  were  straw 
and  white.  Second  came  Cold  Deck,  a  small, 
pudgy  light  chestnut,  a  white  boy  rode  him, 
decked  out  in  black  and  white  polka  dots. 
Third  came  Little  Christmas,  a  dark  brown 
entire  horse,  with  reached  mane,  and  tail,  a 
white  boy  astride  him,  colors  pink  and  brown. 
Fourth  came  General  Coxey,  a  lean  fly-bitten 
white,  a  tiny  negro  rode  him ;  his  colors  were 
"green  above  the  red,"  the  same  colors  that 
"Father  Bill"  Daly  sported.  Fifth  came 
Cheerful  Mary,  a  golden  chestnut,  full  of 
life  and  fury,  buck-jumping,  prancing,  every 
foot  of  the  way,  ridden  by  a  colored  lad ;  col- 
ors mauve  and  cerise.  Sixth  came  Lights  o' 
London,  entire,  shiny  black,  with  white  face, 
pink  nose,  two  white  hind  feet,  ridden  by  a 
husky  white  boy,  colors  green  and  white.  Sev- 
enth came  Indian  Fields,  jogging  along  at  a 
cavalry  trot,  his  sandy-haired  rider,  posting 
in  the  saddle;  an  oddly  marked  entire  horse, 


350  Tales  of  The 

a  throw-back  clearly  to  some  ancient  type, 
with  a  tail  like  a  street-sweeper;  jockey  col- 
ors red  and  blue.  The  handsome  horses  and 
gay  colors  fascinated  the  rural  spectators, 
there  were  many  "ohs"  and  "ahs"  as  each 
horse  passed  the  stand. 

Contrary  to  the  custom  of  most  running 
races  at  the  fairs,  there  was  a  good  start,  a 
quick  start.  In  fact  they  were  "off"  at  the 
first  break.  All  broke  about  even,  except 
Cheerful  Mary,  who  got  much  the  worst  of 
it.  The  boy  on  Matador  kept  watching  Lights 
o'  London,  as  if  there  was  nothing  else  in  the 
race.  Martin's  instructions  had  been  to  take 
the  black  out  in  front,  and  keep  him  there. 
He  was  going  to  take  no  chances  against  the 
possible  prowess  of  Indian  Fields. 

As  they  passed  the  grandstand,  the  first 
time  around,  Matador  and  Lights  o'  London 
were  running  side  by  side.  "Hitch  the  sprin- 
klin'  cart  behind  'em",  shouted  a  facetious 
onlooker.  Little  Christmas,  under  a  terrific 
pull,  was  running  third,  five  lengths  behind, 
with  Indian  Fields,  at  his  withers,  a  good 
fourth.  Rounding  the  turn,  Indian  Fields 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  351 

moved  forward,  and  the  rider  of  Little  Christ- 
mas went  to  the  whip,  pounding  him  all  along 
the  backstretch.  Turning  into  the  straight- 
away Little  Christmas  having  stood  a  drive 
for  three  eighths  of  a  mile,  quit,  while  In- 
dian Fields  was  breezing  along  unconcerned, 
a  fair  test  of  his  endurance. 

The  "hippodrome"  between  Matador  and 
Lights  o'  London  continued  past  the  stand. 
It  promised  to  be  a  tame  race.  "Say,  them 
guys  has  got  it  fixed  between  'em",  said  the 
same  facetious  onlooker.  Few  watched  In- 
dian Fields  make  his  run,  after  they  had 
rounded  the  next  turn.  He  had  "killed  off" 
Little  Christmas,  his  eye  was  now  on  the  pair 
in  front.  His  rider  leaned  forward,  it  was 
a  signal,  the  fulvous-colored  bay  shot  forward 
like  a  driving  rod.  In  a  bound  or  two  he 
closed  up  the  five  length  gap  which  had 
separated  him  from  the  leaders,  and  all  along 
the  backstretch,  the  three  raced  side  by  side : 
Indian  Fields  on  the  far  outside.  Near  the 
last  turn  Matador's  rider  began  his  effort  with 
whip  and  spur.  The  old  stag  responded 
gamely,  his  long  chocolate  colored  muzzle 


352  Tales  of  The 

shot  out  in  front  of  Lights  o'  London's  pink- 
ish nose.  Then  the  rider  of  the  gallant  black 
"put  his  nose  to  the  grindstone,"  and  it  was 
nip  and  tuck  between  the  two  old-time  rivals. 
Far  on  the  outside,  his  jockey  sitting  far 
back  in  the  saddle  to  steady  himself,  Indian 
Fields  swung  around  the  turn.  The  black 
streak  down  his  face  stood  out  like  an  arrow, 
his  ample  mane  and  tail  were  flying  in  the 
wind  like  gonfalons.  Onward  he  came,  with 
an  irresistible  rush,  striking  the  track  with 
terrific  hoof  beats  as  he  lengthened  out  for 
home.  "Hey  there,  boy,  see  that  striped 
horse",  yelled  a  score  of  Matador's  or  Lights 
o'  London's  partisans.  Both  jockeys  looked 
quickly  at  their  unreckoned  foe,  and  dug  their 
spurs  deeper.  A  lull  fell  on  the  stand,  it  was 
to  be  one  race  in  a  thousand.  The  distance 
down  the  stretch  was  short;  Lights  o'  Lon- 
don's jockey  pulled  his  mount  across  the  track 
in  order  to  avoid  a  possible  bumping  match 
with  Matador,  to  give  him  freer  action.  This 
lost  him  a  second  at  least  but  he  caught  his 
stride,  rushing  ahead,  with  a  notable  display 
of  courage.  At  the  far  end  of  the  stand  In- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  353 

dian  Fields  passed  his  two  competitors,  and 
romped  under  the  wire  an  easy  winner  by 
five  lengths.  A  spontaneous  cheer  went  up 
from  the  stand,  it  was  a  well- won  struggle. 
Lights  o'  London  beat  out  Matador  by  a 
length.  Behind  them,  jaded  and  worn,  trailed 
in  General  Coxey,  Cold  Deck,  Cheerful  Mary, 
and  Little  Christmas,  in  the  order  named. 
Little  Christmas,  it  must  be  said,  was  more 
of  a  sprinter  than  a  distance  horse. 

The  timers  hung  up  1 :46  as  the  time,  beat- 
ing the  track  record  by  six  seconds.  A  great 
crowd  assembled  around  the  winner ;  his  mys- 
terious antecedents,  and  odd  markings  mak- 
ing him  an  object  of  curiosity.  In  the  crowd 
there  was  one  sad-hearted  youth;  Martin 
Fryer  refused  to  believe  that  the  best  horse 
had  won,  the  jockey  in  driving  Lights  o'  Lon- 
don across  the  track  at  a  time  when  every 
leap  counted,  was  the  cause  of  his  defeat — 
and  the  loss  of  Agnes. 

After  cooling  off  the  doughty  black,  he 
made  arrangements  to  ship  home  the  next 
morning,  he  wanted  no  more  racing.  As  ho 
walked  to  the  freight,  house  he  gazed  up  sai- 


354  Tales  of  The 

ly  at  the  dusk-encompassed  height  of  Look- 
out Mountain,  that  was  to  have  been  the  open- 
ing scene  of  his  happiness,  had  only  Lights 
o'  London  won.  He  felt  too  sick  at  heart 
to  go  to  see  Agnes  that  night.  The  next  morn- 
ing, after  he  had  loaded  his  string,  he  wend- 
ed his  way  to  her  modest  cottage.  The  house 
was  closed,  and  several  stout  women,  with 
their  sleeves  rolled  up,  stood  outside  the  gate 
talking  loudly  and  gesticulating.  Martin 
started  to  enter,  when  one  of  the  women 
stopped  him.  "There's  no  use  going  in,  mis- 
ter man,  they're  all  away.  That  pretty  girl 
Agnes  disappeared  at  the  fair,  after  the  run- 
ning race  last  night.  They  think  she's  gone 
off  with  a  horseman,  why  those  fellows  are 
worse  on  the  girls  than  the  picture  show  men." 

Martin,  overcome  with  a  cowardly  fear,  the 
inward  form  of  his  loneliness  turned  about, 
and  returned  to  his  box-car. 

In  another  half  an  hour  the  car  was  on 
its  way,  shunting  out  past  Lookout  Moun- 
tain. The  autumnal  tints  were  even  more 
distinct  than  on  Monday,  in  the  clear  light, 
the  yellows  now  predominating.  As  he  gazed 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  355 

from  the  open  door  of  the  car,  at  the  pine- 
tipped  summit  the  thought  flashed  through 
his  mind:  "Maybe  Agnes  climbed  to  the  top 
of  the  mountain  last  night,  even  though 
Lights  o'  London  didn't  win,  she  might  be 
there  now,  I  ought  to  go  back  and  see."  Then 
the  narrow,  cowardly  streak  mingled  with  a 
thought  of  her  ill-treatment  of  him  in  the 
past,  and  images  of  ease  and  home  got  the 
mastery.  "Even  if  she  is  up  there  I'd  not 
climb  that  mountain  for  any  girl,  let  her  come 
after  me",  he  said  as  he  pulled-to  the  sliding 
door. 


XVIII. 


TWO   ROSES 

(Story  of  Mount  Julian) 


ALTER  PATER"  said  the  an- 
tiquarian, "in  his  chapter  in 
Marius  called  'White 
Nights',  speaks  of  'The 
mystery  of  so-called  white 
things.  "They  are,  accord- 
ing to  a  German  authority 
whom  he  quotes,  'ever  an 
^^^^^  after-thought;  the  doubles 

or  seconds,  of  real  things',  the  red  rose  came 
first,  the  white  rose  afterwards.  That  was 
the  reason,  apparently  why  my  love  for  the 
beautiful  blue-eyed  Cleise  seemed  only  a 
reflected  counterpart  of  my  romantic  epi- 
sode with  the  black-eyed  Hermionie.  And 
that  was  why  after  an  association  which 
bid  fair  to  end  in  matrimony,  it  reached 
"high  water  mark,"  by  sending  a  birth- 
day card  to  Hermionie  telling  her  of  an 
intended  marriage,  which  never  took  place. 
356 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  357 

And  that  was  why,  when  I  posted  the  card, 
in  the  presence  of  Cleise,  I  felt  a  sudden 
pang  of  sorrow,  that  through  a  marriage  I 
would  belong  to  Hermionie  no  longer. 

As  long  as  I  was  single  I  still  was  hers 
in  spirit,  a  marriage  would  sever  the  tie.  And 
yet  Cleise  was  so  much  like  Hermionie,  that 
at  times  I  was  startled,  like  her  in  everything 
except  in  coloring.  I  had  been  first  attracted 
to  her  for  that  reason,  she  was  a  veritable 
double,  or  second,  or  counterpart,  in  blonde 
coloring.  Hermionie  had  never  been  mine, 
our  romance  had  been  so  delightfully  vague 
that  I  had  never  asked  her  how  much  she 
cared  for  me;  it  was  continued  to  the  point 
of  love-making  and  declarations  with  Cleise, 
but  the  finale  was  as  nebulous  as  my  last 
evening  with  Hermionie.  It  was  predestined 
that  Cleise  was  to  hear  what  Hermionie  had 
never  heard,  the  words  of  a  love  that  lasted 
unchanged  for  years,  but  were  to  sink  into 
oblivion  unrecorded.  Cleise  was  the  mirror 
in  which  was  reflected  the  every  detail  of  my 
ill-starred  affection. 


358  Tales  of  The 

Can  it  be  that  we  love  a  dark  person  more 
intensely  and  lastingly  than  a  blonde?  Surely 
we  do,  if  the  fair  person  is  only  the  reflected 
image  of  a  black-eyed  ideal.  When  I  shut  my 
eyes  for  inward  contemplation,  Hermionie 
I  always  see  more  clearly  than  Cleise.  And 
yet  in  life  I  had  never  mentioned  a  word  of 
love  to  the  dark  girl,  while  to  the  blonde  I 
nad  made  clear  my  passion,  not  only  in  speech 
but  in  letters  and  almost  daily  verses.  How- 
ever, I  have  liked  more  blondes  than  bru- 
nettes. By  the  way,  I  wonder  where  those 
verses  are  now,  as  her  wedding  day  ap- 
proaches? She  bought  a  Japanese  silver 
jewel-case  to  put  them  in,  but  that  was  in 
the  days  before  she  had  yielded  to  her  Fate. 
Discarded  verses  suffer  a  worse  ending  than 
discarded  photographs.  I  got  my  faded  tin- 
type back  from  Hermionie  and  Cleise,  but  I 
never  asked  for  the  verses.  They  have  gone  to 
that  bourne  of  oblivion  which  swallows  up  old 
race-horses,  old  show-girls,  old  bric-a-brac.  I 
will  always  believe  that  Cleise  came  into  my 
life  to  continue  my  soul's  fealty  to  Hermi- 
onie, It  might  have  wavered  were  it  not  for 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  359 

her — but  now  it  is  over  its  giddy  period,  and 
is  as  solid  as  a  concrete  light-house  on  a 
rock. 

I  will  never  forget  the  first  time  I  saw 
Hermionie.  It  was  the  first  epoch  of  my  love- 
life.  I  was  at  a  railway  station,  waiting  for 
the  Northern  Express.  Why  is  that  our 
sweetest  moments  come  before  a  separation? 
It  seems  to  emphasize  that  losing  is 
loving.  It  was  in  the  clear  light  of  a 
June  afternoon;  the  intense  radiance  of 
the  summer  sun  was  upon  us,  intensifying  the 
deep  green  of  the  maple  trees,  the  rose  bush- 
es, the  sparks  of  humidity  glistening  from 
the  rails.  I  had  been  driven  to  the  depot 
half  an  hour  before  train  time,  and  I  was 
nervous — at  the  delay  I  thought.  I  know  now 
that  it  was  the  nervous  apprehension  which 
comes  to  a  person  before  some  important  hap- 
pening. Presently  I  saw  three  very  young 
girls  approaching,  the  oldest  was  less  than 
sixteen,  I  was  five  years  older  than  the  young- 
est. As  they  drew  near  I  observed  that  while 
all  three  had  very  dark  hair,  only  one  had 
black  eyes.  They  were  all  pretty  and  dainty 


360  Tales  of  The 

enough,  but  only  one  could  be  called  beauti- 
ful. That  one  was  the  girl  with  the  dark- 
est hair  and  the  black  eyes.  A  description  of 
her  appearance  at  that  time  is  a  description 
of  her  as  she  is  to-day,  for  she  hasn't  changed 
a  particle  in  all  these  eleven  years.  God  was 
pleased  with  her,  and  ordained  that  she  should 
never  be  different.  Besides,  a  changing  per- 
son cannot  be  the  bulwark  of  a  love  which 
lingers  in  the  inmost  depths  of  the  spirit, 
which  is  unchangeable. 

I  remember  first  of  all  that  her  figure  was 
very  slim  and  very  straight,  hers  was  the 
most  erect,  yet  the  most  graceful  form  that  I 
have  ever  seen,  excepting  Cleise,  her  golden 
shadow.  Her  thick  hair  was  black,  a  brown 
black,  not  a  blue  black,  but  her  eyes  were  the 
blackest  of  ivory  black  that  ever  sparkled 
from  between  two  pairs  of  shadowy  lashes. 
She  had  dark  eyebrows,  prettily  arched.  Hers 
was  the  most  beautiful  nose  I  have  ever  seen 
on  a  human  face,  it  must  have  been  the  nose 
of  the  dryads,  the  wood-nymphs,  the  nereids 
—I  must  admit  it  was  prettier  than  Cleise's 
which  is  saying  a  good  deal,  as  everyone  is 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  361 

aware.  There  was  a  slight  arch  to  the  bridge 
of  Hermionie's  nose,  but  it  was  saved  from 
Quaker  severity  by  turning  up  just  a  trifle 
at  the  tip,  giving  a  vivacity  to  her  expres- 
sion, the  secret  of  eternal  youth.  Yet  the 
nostrils  turned  downward,  which  is  a  sign 
of  mental  excellence.  I  am  a  great  believer 
in  noses;  a  nose  is  either  a  bridge  or  a  bar- 
rier. And,  Hermionie  has  the  most  beauti- 
ful nose  I  have  ever  seen.  Her  upper  lip 
was  short,  of  Grecian  shortness,  but  her  ex- 
quisitely curved  lips  were  pitifully  thin.  It 
was  the  visible  expression,  surely,  of  some 
spiritual  bitterness,  if  we  concede  anything 
to  the  science  of  Lavater.  I  have  always  been 
partial  to  full  lips,  as  I  have  been  to  blondes, 
yet  I  prefer  Hermionie's  to  any  girl's  mouth 
1  have  ever  seen.  I  do  not  mean  that  I  would 
prefer  to  kiss  it,  for  I  never  have  except  in 
dreams,  I  mean  I  prefer  to  look  at  it  as  a 
triumph  of  Nature's  art.  It  was  the  most 
expressive  feature  of  an  uncommonly  expres- 
sive face.  There  was  a  good  outline  to  her 
chin  and  throat;  her  little  pink  ears  had  a 
peculiar  formation,  instead  of  being  pendu- 


362  Tales  of  The 

lous  the  lobes  grew  to  the  sides  of  the 
face,  like  in  certain  statues  of  fauns.  This 
gave  a  quaint  archness  to  her  expression. 
Even  at  fifteen  Hermionie  was  extremely 
pale,  not  the  waxy  pallor  of  ill-health,  but 
the  rugged  whiteness  of  intellectuality.  Just 
as  there  are  blondes  and  blondes,  there  are 
various  textures  of  paleness.  This  was  the 
mental  picture  I  absorbed  as  I  watched  her 
with  her  young  friends  walking  about  on  the 
platform  that  summer  afternoon.  Twenty 
minutes  of  contemplation  did  not  reveal  me 
all  her  charms;  I  seemed  to  be  just  beginning 
when  the  whistle  of  the  approaching  train 
brought  all  the  travellers,  baggage-handlers, 
cabmen,  and  idlers  to  attention. 

Our  eyes  had  met  several  times,  and  they 
met  again,  as  I  climbed  into  the  day-coach. 
I  looked  back  from  the  car-window,  I  could 
see  the  three  girls  laughing  and  chatting  with 
the  older  sister  of  one  of  them,  a  blonde 
whom  they  had  come  to  the  station  to 
meet.  As  I  knew  one  of  the  young 
girls  by  sight,  there  was  a  chance  I  could 
become  acquainted  with  Hermionie.  I 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  363 

felt  that  I  had  seen  the  rarest  being  who 
had  ever  crossed  my  path;  she  seemed  most 
harmonious  to  my  spiritual  faculties,  surely 
we  would  meet  again.  Through  the  hours 
while  the  Northern  Express  thundered  along 
I  sat  rapt,  in  a  dream-world  with  Hermionle. 
I  thought  of  the  past,  I  had  seen  no  one  any- 
ways like  her;  I  strained  my  spiritual  sight 
to  look  into  the  future,  I  never  would  see  a 
being  quite  the  same.  Boylike  I  must  have 
found  a  loop-hole  in  the  canvas  of  the  infinite, 
as  the  years  never  did  bring  her  counterpart, 
except  her  fair  shadow,  Cleise. 

Months  rolled  around  before  I  was  able  to 
revisit  the  abode  of  Hermionie.  At  timss 
it  seemed  as  if  I  would  never  get  there — the 
time  passed  slower,  the  task  more  difficult  of 
accomplishment,  because  its  realization  meant 
so  much  to  me.  If  I  had  understood  the  driv- 
ing orders  of  destiny  'do  it  now,  or  not  at 
all'  I  would  have  waited  over  another  day 
and  met  her — but  as  a  boy  'tomorrow' 
seemed  nearer  and  more  positive  than  it  does 
at  present.  The  difficulties  in  returning  to 
Hermionie's  locality  taught  me  I  was  becom- 


364  Tales  of  The 

ing  a  man,  a  dweller  in  a  real  and  less  accom- 
modating universe.  But  I  returned  neverthe- 
less, in  September,  when  the  trees  were  just 
beginning  to  change  color.  I  was  introduced 
to  the  older  sister  of  one  of  the  girls,  the  one 
whom  Hermionie  and  her  friends  had  gone  to 
meet,  and  through  her  became  acquainted 
with  my  rare  ideal's  companion. 

The  first  thing  she  asked  me  was  if  I  re- 
membered that  day  at  the  station;  we  had 
a  pleasant  chat  concerning  it.  They  knew 
who  I  was  it  seemed,  and  were  wondering 
whether  I  recognized  them.  The  next  after- 
noon after  this  pleasant  introduction,  I  met 
this  young  girl  just  as  she  was  coming  from 
her  home  on  a  shady  street  which  ran  along 
the  river  bank.  I  stopped  for  a  few  moments 
to  converse,  and  when  I  turned  to  go  my  way 
I  saw  to  my  surprise  standing  beside  us,  Her- 
mionie and  her  other  young  girl  friend.  I 
don't  know  to  this  day  what  became  of  the 
other  two  girls,  Hermionie  and  I  were  left 
together,  amid  the  deepening  shadows  that 
September  afternoon. 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  365 

I  suggested  that  we  take  a  walk,  and  she 
acquiesced ;  when  two  people  like  one  another, 
one  never  refuses  a  wish  of  the  other.  There 
were  many  maple-leaves  on  the  sidewalk,  and 
we  kicked  them  as  we  walked,  they  sounded 
like  the  roar  of  some  miniature  ocean.  We 
passed  the  Judge's  mansion,  that  grand,  kind- 
ly old  gentleman  was  sitting  on  his  favorite 
rocker,  talking  to  some  political  henchman; 
he  recognized  us  and  smiled  merrily.  At  the 
far  end  of  his  shady  yard  stood  an  ancient 
fountain  separated  from  the  sidewalk  only  by 
a  low  iron  fence.  In  its  plashy  bowls,  in  the 
late  afternoon,  robins  were  bathing.  We 
stopped  to  admire  the  pretty  creatures,  dash- 
ing the  water  about  with  their  nut-brown 
wings,  like  tiny  tritons.  Our  hands  on  the 
scroll-work  of  the  fence,  I  was  telling  her  how 
I  always  used  to  stop  at  midnight,  when  re- 
turning from  dances,  to  listen  to  the  music  of 
the  fountain,  sometimes  standing  in  that  same 
place  for  fifteen  minutes;  how  one  night  I 
thought  I  saw  the  ghost  of  a  little  man,  with 
a  forked  beard,  but  that  he  turned  out  to  be 
the  reflection  of  the  moon  through  the  trees, 


366  Tales  of  The 

on  the  fence  and  shrubbery.  I  told  her  about 
the  fairy  parks  up  on  the  Pike;  if  you  visit 
them  on  a  moonlight  night  with  some  one  you 
love,  and  who  loves  you  as  much  in  return, 
you  will  see  the  fairies;  otherwise  you  can- 
not. It  is  a  true  test  of  love.  We  got  no 
further  than  the  realm  of  the  old  fountain 
that  afternoon,  the  Judge  must  have  wondered 
what  we  found  there  that  was  so  interesting. 
It  was  nearly  supper  time,  a  pale  gold  sun- 
set gleamed  through  the  foliage  and  the  old 
jurist  was  leaving  the  porch,  as  we  passed  by 
the  mansion  again.  But  at  the  fountain  I  had 
gotten  to  know  Hermionie,  an  intimate  con- 
geniality was  revealed,  that  was  destined  to 
last  through  the  years,  without  often  seeing 
or  hearing  of  her.  I  recollect  telling  her,  just 
as  the  last  robin  saucily  shook  his  feathers 
to  fly  to  the  tree-tops,  'I  feel  as  if  I  knew 
you  so  well,  that  even  if  I  never  see  you  again 
it  will  always  be  the  same'.  But  we  were 
destined  to  meet  in  the  future,  but  at  wide 
intervals.  Sometimes  a  year  would  pass,  but 
I  always  felt  unchanged. 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  367 

Y/hen  a  more  tangible  romance  came  into 
my  life,  hers  were  the  last  letters  I  burned 
in  the  grate,  that  May  morning.  And  a 
year  later,  when  that  romance  was  no  more, 
I  found,  to  my  joy,  another  packet  of  her 
letters,  in  that  scrawled,  irregular  hand,  in 
a  filing-case  in  my  office.  I  had  destroyed 
other  letters  from  that  same  case;  it  was 
so  miraculous  that  these  must  have  taken 
on  an  invisible  wrapper,  to  escape  the  holo- 
caust. They  were  to  cheer  me,  simple,  good- 
natured,  girlish  letters  in  the  darkest  of  hours. 
Hermionie  had  married  some  time  before 
my  romance  culminated  and  was  happy  in  her 
new  life.  In  the  melancholy  tide  which  be- 
set me  I  needed  the  kindly  consolation  of 
her  radiant  memory. 

One  beautiful  afternoon  in  the  early 
Springtime,  I  was  travelling  in  a  train.  At 
a  small  station,  a  young  girl  wearing  a  fresh 
white  tulip,  and  accompanied  by  her  mother 
got  in.  She  was  above  medium  size,  of  the 
slender,  very  erect  type  that  I  admired,  she 
was  about  the  same  age  that  Hermionie  had 
been,  when  our  romance  was  at  its  height. 


368  Tales  of  The 

The  more  I  looked  at  her,  the  more  I  mar- 
velled at  the  resemblance  of  her  features  and 
expression  to  those  of  my  former  sweetheart 
— except  that  she  was  an  ash  blonde,  and 
Hermionie  was  dark  as  midnight.  There 
may  not  have  been  as  much  aquilinity  to  the 
nose,  and  a  trifle  more  fullness  to  the  lips; 
but  these  were  fine  distinctions ;  barring  col- 
oring they  were  counterparts.  I  liked  her, 
I  wondered  who  she  was,  I  wanted  to  meet 
her  just  as  I  had  Hermionie,  and  because, 
blonde  though  she  was,  she  reminded  me  of 
Hermionie.  She  was  her  'double  or  second' 
....  'half-real,  half-material,'  the  gold- 
en reflection  through  the  years  of  a  long-ab- 
sent love.  I  hoped  that  some  day  I  would 
meet  her,  though  I  had  no  idea  who  she  might 
be,  mostly  because  she  gave  gratification  to 
my  soul's  hunger  that  few  could  appease. 

Months  later  at  a  dinner  party,  who  should 
appear  in  the  drawing  room,  but  the  beau- 
tiful blonde  girl  herself,  I  couldn't  have  been 
more  amazed  if  it  had  been  Hermionie.  I 
found  that  her  name  was  Cleise,  and  I  was 
to  escort  her  in  to  dinner.  When  the  time 


i- 


c    c 

z  1 

II 

OL   '± 

q 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  369 

came,  and  she  spoke  to  me,  I  was  further  sur- 
prised to  find  that  she  talked  with  the  same 
peculiar  inflexion  so  characteristic  of  Hermi- 
onie.  It  is  hard  to  describe  how  Hermionie, 
or  Cleise  talked.  It  was  not  a  nasal  twang, 
or  a  sectional  dialect,  for  both  were  well  edu- 
cated and  used  the  best  of  English.  It  was 
a  tone  of  voice  just  their  own,  that's  all. 
You  who  have  heard  them  speak  know  what 
I  mean,  and  how  pleasing  it  is  to  listen  to 
them.  Cleise  had  the  same  enthusiasm,  the 
unbridled  exuberance  of  youth,  of  youth  that 
has  never  had  a  crossed  hope.  All  through 
the  dinner  I  sought  to  learn  her  point  of  view, 
it  was  original  and  clever,  but  it  was  Hermi- 
onie's,  as  well.  And  yet  Cleise  had  never  seen 
Hermionie,  perhaps  similar  racial  strains 
flowed  in  her  veins,  their  ancestors  may  have 
lived  in  the  same  villages  in  the  Highlands 
or  the  Pyranees.  But  it  was  a  delight  to 
hear  Cleise  talk,  it  was  also  a  delight  to  look 
at  her.  She  was  as  if  I  had  caused  a  sculptor 
to  make  a  golden  image  of  the  unseen  Hermi- 
onie. But  I  did  not  tell  her  she  reminded  me 
of  some  one  I  had  known,  for  she  didn't,  she 


370  Tales  of  The 

was  Hermionie,  her  double,  her  second,  her 
re-issue.  I  couldn't  bear  to  part  from  her  that 
night,  I  wanted  to  listen  to  more  of  her  pe- 
culiarly intoned  speech;  it  is  the  quaintest 
inflexion  of  English  that  I  have  ever  heard. 
When  she  left  the  room  I  overheard  several 
men  say  'She  is  the  most  beautiful  young 
woman  in  town.' 

I  saw  Cleise  a  number  of  times  after  that, 
but  only  at  wide  intervals.  But  I  trans- 
gressed over  the  spiritual  boundary,  I  told 
her  how  much  I  loved  her;  I  literally  began 
where  I  had  left  off  with  Hermionie.  I  found 
her  as  responsive  a  sweetheart  as  Hermionie 
had  been  as  a  friend ;  but  she  was  more  than 
that — Oh,  what  shall  I  call  her,  a  more-than- 
friend,  an  intimate  companion,  a  dear  associ- 
ate. We  took  little  excursions  together  to 
spots  of  rare  scenic  beauty,  to  historic  locali- 
ties, to  the  homes  of  congenial  mutual  friends. 
To  the  happy  mental  intercourse  was  added 
the  thrill  of  acknowledged  affection.  With 
Hermionie  it  had  always  been  a  word  left  un- 
said, a  sudden  pause,  a  silence  ever  since 
regretted.  But  I  have  always  been  shy,  it 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  371 

pains  me  now  to  utter  a  word  of  love,  though 
I  feel  that  my  heart  is  full  to  overflowing. 

On  one  of  these  pleasant  little  excursions, 
to  the  old  home  of  the  immortal  Bayard  Tay- 
lor, I  recollected  that  it  was  within  a  day 
of  Hermionie's  birthday.  I  had  always  sent 
her  cards  on  this  occasion,  even  from  foreign 
lands,  I  did  not  want  to  break  the  sequence, 
even  though  I  was  with  the  fair  Cleise.  'I 
ani  going  to  send  a  birthday  card  to  some- 
one whom  I  used  to  know,  and  who  reminds 
me  very  much  of  you.'  After  all  I  had  to 
make  use  of  the  old  platitude.  But  in  this 
case  I  said  it  to  satisfy  myself  that  to  Cleise 
I  was  true  in  thought  and  deed.  It  was  a 
poor-looking  post-card  too,  with  only  a  view 
of  the  village  church  on  it,  but  it  had  to  suf- 
fice. I  laid  it  on  the  writing-shelf  in  the 
cozy  little  post  office  and  wrote  'I  wish  you 
a  very  happy  birthday,'  and  signed  my  in- 
itials. I  walked  over  to  the  letter-drop,  to 
toss  it  in,  when  something  restrained  me.  I 
looked  at  the  card  to  make  sure  I  had  ad- 
dressed it  right,  that  I  had  said  nothing 
which  might  offend  a  happily  married 
woman.  I  walked  back  to  the  shelf,  and 


372  Tales  of  The 

wrote  below  the  other  words  'I  am  thinking 
about  getting  married.'  The  spiritual  re- 
straint was  satisfied,  I  dropped  the  card 
through  the  slot  unhampered. 

Cleise  who  was  watching  me  all  the  while 
said  'Oh  v/hat  a  funny  man  you  are,  you 
give  as  much  time  to  that  card  as  if  you  were 
applying  for  a  post  in  the  diplomatic  serv- 
ice.' She  would  have  thought  me  funnier, 
had  she  known  what  I  had  added  to  my  greet- 
ing, expectations  of  matrimony  without  ever 
having  proposed.  Later  that  evening,  on  our 
homeward  journey  to  the  great  city,  I  ought 
to  have  asked  Cleise  to  marry  me.  She  was 
just  as  responsive  as  she  had  ever  been  that 
night ;  if  she  cared  for  me  enough  she  would 
have  said  'yes/  But  I  always  had  a  feeling 
when  with  a  girl  that  translated  into  lan- 
guage would  be  'perhaps  she  doesn't  care  for 
me.'  It  had  given  me  many  a  heartache  be- 
fore; this  night  I  feared  to  go  ahead.  How 
awful  to  confess  such  cowardice!  I  should 
have  realized  that  if  a  girl  cared  enough  to 
go  with  me  on  these  little  outings,  she  would 
be  liable  to  stand  me  as  a  permanent  com- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  373 

panion,  perhaps.  But  the  cars  ran  swifter 
than  usual  that  night,  there  were  other  sub- 
jects to  discuss. 

I  remember  how  Cleise  shuddered,  when 
we  got  out  of  the  hot  train  at  midnight,  and 
drew  her  neck-scarf  of  fisher's  fur,  tightly 
about  her  face.  I  would  have  loved  to  have 
taken  her  in  my  arms  then;  I  was  always 
courageous  at  the  wrong  time.  But  I  hoped 
some  day  I  would  marry  her,  she  was  so 
beautiful,  so  congenial.  But  the  wish  with- 
out the  word  is  far  from  the  accomplishment. 
I  never  got  any  nearer  to  a  marriage  than 
sending  that  card.  Two  weeks  later  Cleise 
departed  for  Europe.  I  should  have  dropped 
everything  and  followed  her  but  didn't.  I 
contented  myself  with  going  to  the  steamer 
to  see  her  off.  But  as  I  look  back  on  it  now, 
I  had  a  presentiment  that  morning  I  would 
never  see  her  again.  We  were  talking  in  the 
gloomy  passage-way,  near  her  stateroom,  no 
one  was  about;  the  thought  came  to  me 
'Why  not  ask  her  for  a  kiss,  I  may  never  see 
her  again'.  I  stifled  the  soul's  cry,  and  we 
parted  in  a  conventional  manner,  I,  and  the 


374  Tales  of  The 

companion  of  so  many  little  'spiritual  adven- 
tures'. Then  for  weeks  I  engrossed  myself 
with  various  occupations,  so  much  so  that  I 
did  not  notice  the  matter-of-fact  tone  of 
Cleise's  letters.  Nor  did  I  pay  much  atten- 
tion to  the  fact  that  a  new  photograph  of 
herself  which  she  promised  to  send  me  as 
soon  as  she  reached  the  other  side  never 
came. 

One  bright  May  afternoon,  when  I  should 
have  been  out-of-doors  mingling  with  the  hap- 
piness of  awakening  nature,  a  letter  was 
handed  to  me.  It  was  from  Paris,  from  Cle- 
ise,  addressed  in  her  scratchy,  uneven  hand; 
so  reminiscent  of  Hermionie.  I  dropped  the 
scientific  problem,  the  theory  of  conic  sec- 
tions, on  which  I  was  working,  and  set  to 
reading  it.  To  my  dismay  it  told  of  her  en- 
gagement to  a  young  man  whom  she  had 
known  anterior  to  meeting  me.  He  had  come 
back  from  India  and  won  her  with  a  fiery, 
impetuous  wooing.  I  was  heartbroken  at 
first,  an  awful  pall  sank  down  upon  me  which 
I  could  not  reason  away.  To  ease  the  pain 
I  hurried  out  into  the  sunshine,  and  wan- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  375 

dered  under  the  budding  trees.  I  had  not 
gone  far  before  I  saw  in  a  front  yard  a  small 
bed  of  white  tulips,  typical  of  Cleise's  fair 
loveliness.  It  was  her  symbol  as  a  golden 
shadow,  a  distant  echo,  a  light  imprint  of 
my  mental  photograph  of  Hermionie.  Now 
the  shadow  was  gone,  I  was  face  to  face  with 
the  reality.  Like  there  is  an  end  to  every 
afternoon,  there  is  an  end  to  every  shadow. 
But  there  are  certain  fixed  verities  which  al- 
ways remain;  Hermionie  was  one.  I  judged 
her  more  clearly,  now  that  the  shadow  of 
Cleise  was  dissipated.  I  was  alone  with  the 
spectre  of  what  might  have  been.  All  I  could 
see  in  the  past  was  the  miserable  botch  I 
had  made  out  of  my  life.  And  the  future 
loomed  dark  and  uncertain  as  a  torrent  at 
night  below  an  unsteady  bridge. 

These  were  terrible  thoughts  on  a  May 
afternoon  when  the  orioles  and  the  larks  were 
in  such  good  humor.  I  had  lost  the  reality, 
and  could  not  lay  my  hands  on  the  shadow. 
Someone  else  had  plucked  the  red  rose,  now  I 
found  the  white  rose  transplanted  to  another 
person's  garden.  If  neither  Hermionie  nor 


376  Tales  of  The 

Cleise  cared  for  me,  my  disappointment  was 
like  an  armistice  after  a  bloodless  war.  To 
have  had  either  turn  me  away  would  have  left 
an  unhealable  wound  in  my  heart  of  hearts. 
But  each  had  passed  gently  out  of  my  life. 
Yet,  what  is  the  difference  between  a  red  and 
a  white  rose?  Each  waked  the  noblest  senti- 
ments in  me,  aroused  the  worthiest  ambi- 
tions, but  the  result  was  the  same,  of  reality 
and  shadow.  When  a  man  grieves  for  a  wom- 
an he  has  never  asked  to  marry  him,  it  is  the 
thought  of  what  might  have  been  that  tor- 
tures; when  it  is  over  a  woman  who  refused 
him,  it  is  for  an  actuality.  Each  grief  has 
its  own  particular  poignancy,  /  suppose. 

I  came  back  from  my  walk,  resigned  to 
fate,  and  turned  again  to  my  scientific  re- 
searches. But  my  soul  must  have  been  un- 
quiet, as  I  had  to  read  Cleise's  letter  again, 
before  I  retired,  at  midnight.  And  now  the 
invitations  to  her  wedding  have  been  issued, 
the  happy  date  is  drawing  near.  This  clear 
afternoon,  while  seated  on  the  summit  of 
Mount  Julian,  gazing  over  the  beautiful  Bald 
Eagle  Valley,  fairest  valley  in  the  world  to 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  377 

those  who  love  it  best,  my  thoughts  turned 
to  Cleise,  and  how  different  this  scene  with 
its  foliage  "a  blaze  of  scarlet  and  gold"  from 
that  foggy,  muggy  morning,  so  confined  and 
stifled,  when  I  talked  with  her  in  the  pas- 
sageway of  the  Mauritania.  Here  I  noted 
a  jay  bird's  shrilling,  there  the  raucous  dron- 
ing of  the  hoists.  I  wished  that  she  were 
here  with  me,  the  thought  was  as  if  a 
shadow  had  swept  across  my  path,  the 
smile  vanished  from  my  lips.  Love  is  a  very 
choice  emotion,  it  is  a  pity  that  we 
cannot  grasp  it  when  it  comes  our  way, 
but  who  ever  heard  tell  of  grasping  a  shad- 
ow? I  looked  down  the  valley,  I  could  see 
ridge  after  ridge  of  the  Bald  Eagle  Moun- 
tains on  one  side,  the  great,  cumbersome 
hump-backed  mass  of  the  Alleghanies  on  the 
other.  In  the  far  distance,  from  the  ochre- 
hued  valley  between,  rose  the  thin  blue  veil 
of  autumnal  haze,  where  valley  blended  with 
sky  and  infinity,  where  fact  was  one  with 
fancy,  for  the  glory  of  Indian  summer. 

It  was  back  there,  where  the  ideal  and 
the  real  were  so  closely  interwoven,  where 


378  Tales  of  The  Bald  Eagle  Mountains 

sunlight  and  haze  gave  out  harmonious  light, 
in  vanished  years  that  I  had  loved  a  tangi- 
ble reality,  Hermionie.  She  had  then  and 
now,  burned  deeper  and  stronger,  and  truer 
into  my  soul  than  the  fair  and  spectacular 
Cleise.  She  had  been  my  chance  of  happi- 
ness which  comes  only  once  to  every  man — 
God  makes  as  many  signals  as  He  can  to  "go 
ahead,"  if  we  fail  to  take  heed,  we  are  eter- 
nally lost;  the  best  we  can  find  thereafter 
is  only  shadow,  rainbow,  the  white  rose." 


XIX. 

THE   SORCERESS 
(Story  of  Warrior's  Mountain) 


HE  GIPSIES  were  camping 
in  Warrior's  Gap.  They 
were  not  the  genial,  blue- 
eyed  tribe  that  Bill  Stanley 
led,  but  foreign  Gipsies,  of 
a  darker  and  swarthier 
type.  They  had  a  string  of 
six  wagons,  and  the  usual 
collection  of  horses,  ponies, 
and  dogs.  All  were  a  pretty  tired  lot  when 
they  selected  an  abandoned  pasture  lot,  near 
the  bubbling  spring,  as  the  best  place  for  a 
twenty-four  hours'  rest. 

They  were  travelling  a  full  day  behind 
schedule,  as  one  of  their  number,  a  young 
woman,  had  been  arrested  for  flim-flamming 
a  "simp"  who  had  come  to  have  his  fortune 
told.  Bond  was  given,  and  the  party  per- 
mitted to  move  on,  but  it  was  putting  them 

379 


380  Tales  of  The 

a  day  late  to  all  their  points,  and  the  season 
was  well  on  the  wane. 

After  tieing  the  perspiring  horses  to  trees, 
they  sat  about  on  the  grass,  in  the  lea  of  their 
mural-decorated  wagons,  smoking,  and  dis- 
cussing the  incidents  of  the  day.  Their 
brief  repose  at  an  end,  they  began  building 
fires  and  foraging.  They  were  a  picturesque 
lot,  take  them  all  in  all,  much  more  so  than 
Bill  Stanley's  bigger  and  fairer  complex- 
ioned  aggregation. 

The  sun  set  clear  that  night,  its  colors 
markedly  similar  to  the  blaze  of  the  Gipsy 
camp-fires. 

Dusk  softened  into  night,  above  the  Bald 
Eagle  mountain  a  full  moon  rose  in  all  its 
effulgent  glory.  It  was  when  the  moon  shone 
down  on  them  that  the  strange  nomads 
seemed  most  alive.  There  is  said  to  be  some 
mystic  connection  between  moonlight  and 
witches,  there  is  even  a  more  intimate  bond 
between  moonlight  and  Gipsies.  They  were 
all  animation  by  its  silvery  light;  some  of 
them  gathered  into  groups  of  two  or  three, 
and  chanted  weird  melodies. 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  381 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  their  celebrating 
that  a  two-horse  buggy  containing  a  couple 
of  travellers,  appeared  in  sight  of  the  camp. 
They  had  been  in  Spruce  Creek  Valley,  and 
after  taking  supper  in  Warrior's  Mark,  were 
on  their  way  to  some  village  in  the  valley 
of  the  Bald  Eagles.  They  had  made  a  quick 
trip  across  the  mountain,  the  chill,  frosty  air 
stimulating  the  horses  more  than  words  or 
whip. 

When  they  met  the  Gipsies,  sitting  about 
their  cheery  fires,  the  temptation  was  too 
great,  they  stopped  and  entered  into  conver- 
sation with  them.  They  had  heard  of  the 
Gipsy  caravan  in  the  southern  valleys,  of  the 
young  girl's  arrest  for  filching  a  pocketbook 
from  a  too  trustful  youth.  They  vowed, 
when  they  stopped,  that  they  would  allow 
no  fortune-telling.  A  girl  of  such  low  cali- 
bre as  to  rob  a  patron,  could  not  very  well 
be  gifted  with  any  such  thing  as  second 
sight.  "She  would  have  foretold  her  own 
downfall",  said  one  of  the  travellers,  an  anti- 
quarian. "But  she  may  have  felt  that  a 
legal  complication  would  do  her  good,  one 


382  Tales  of  The 

can  never  tell  what  cosmic  wisdom  figures 
out",  replied  the  other. 

The  Gipsies  proved  entertaining  hosts,  and 
the  antiquarian  sought  to  extract  from  them 
some  memories  of  their  past,  to  form  an 
opinion  as  to  their  origin.  They  looked  like 
such  pure  descendants  of  the  Hindoo  famine 
sufferers  who  wandered  into  Europe  hunting 
food  nine  or  ten  centuries  ago,  and  have 
been  wandering  ever  since,  that  they  might 
have  proved  valuable  "historical  landmarks". 
But  the  best  they  could  do  was  to  recollect 
traditions  of  fifty  years  before,  when  they 
were  trailing  through  Assyria. 

While  the  travellers  were  talking  with  the 
oldest  man  in  the  party,  who  said  he  was 
"about  sixty-three",  a  well-developed  young 
woman,  who  looked  to  be  about  twenty-one, 
approached,  and  sat  down  beside  them.  There 
was  a  curliness  to  her  dark  hair,  an  oriental 
whiteness  to  the  eyeballs  of  her  dark  blue 
eyes,  that  gave  her  a  certain  individuality. 
She  listened  intently  to  all  that  they  had  to 
say,  keeping  track  of  every  sentence  with  her 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  383 

lips,  and  not  with  her  eyes,  as  is  the  case  with 
more  highly  civilized  persons. 

When  the  old  man  relapsed  into  silence,  she 
leaned  over  on  her  elbow,  and  asked  the 
antiquarian  if  she  could  tell  his  fortune.  He 
had  a  habit  of  saying  "no"  at  first  to  every- 
thing:, and  then  changing  his  mind,  but  he 
changed  the  no  into  a  yes,  before  she  noticed 
it.  His  friend  looked  at  him  in  dismay;  all 
his  ridicule  of  these  wayward  soothsayers 
had  come  to  naught.  The  young  woman 
looked  at  him  intently.  "Say",  she  said,  "I 
like  to  tell  your  future,  you  have  some  of 
the  same  power  that  I  have".  From  that 
she  went  on  predicting  many  things,  includ- 
ing a  serious  illness,  which  was  not  very 
cheerful  to  hear.  Then  she  delved  a  short 
distance  into  the  past.  "You  were  married 
once,  you  have  a  little  son,  whom  you  have 
never  held  in  your  arms,  but  you  will  never 
marry  again".  The  antiquarian  pressed  her 
for  a  reason,  although  matrimony  did  not 
appeal  to  him  very  much  at  the  time.  "I 
cannot  tell  you  myself  why  that  will  be,  but 
I  know  this  much,  it  will  all  be  revealed  to 


384  Tales  of  The 

you  some  night  this  coming  November  one 
year". 

Further  than  that,  she  could  tell  nothing, 
she  could  divine  that  the  explanation  would 
be  given,  but  said  there  was  an  impenetrable 
cloud  between  her  and  the  whys  and  where- 
fores. After  she  had  finished  a  curious  smile 
played  over  her  full  red  lips  an  instant,  but 
she  made  no  remark.  "What  makes  you 
smile  like  that"?  inquired  the  antiquarian, 
who  was  quite  won  over.  "Oh,  nothing — yes, 
of  course,  I  will  tell  you — won't  you  please 
look  in  your  coat-pocket  and  see  if  your 
money-wallet  is  there,  I  have  just  been  re- 
leased from  jail  for  taking  one".  "Oh,  I 
know  that  story,  it  is  all  over  the  valleys", 
the  antiquarian  answered,  "but  I  don't  be- 
lieve it".  "Very  well,  look  in  your  pocket", 
said  the  sorceress.  The  young  man  did  as 
requested,  but  found  the  pocketbook  missing. 
"That's  very  funny",  he  said,  "after  all  my 
travels  and  experiences,  I  fall  as  easily  as 
any  common  garden  simp".  The  girl  laughed 
out  loud,  and  rose  to  her  feet.  As  she  did  so, 
she  extracted  the  wallet  from  the  bosom  of 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  385 

her  shirtwaist,  handing  it  to  him.  "When 
you  were  driving  across  the  mountain",  she 
resumed,  "you  were  saying  that  you  didn't 
believe  in  Gipsy  fortune-tellers,  that  anyone 
was  a  fool  to  bother  with  them,  that  the 
Nittany  Valley  farmer  in  question  deserved 
all  he  got,  now  didn't  you  say  that"?  The 
antiquarian  was  glad  to  admit  the  truth,  but 
claimed  that  he  now  thought  otherwise.  "I 
don't  know  whether  you  do  or  not,  in  your 
heart",  said  the  young  woman,  "you  say  you 
do  because  you  have  'taken  a  shine'  to  me 
personally,  but  secretly  you  think  I  am  only 
a  shrewd  guesser.  You  will  believe  in  my 
powers  after  next  November  one  year". 

The  hour  was  late,  so  the  travellers  bade 
good-bye  to  their  unconventional  acquaint- 
ances, and  started  for  the  little  village  across 
the  valley.  All  the  rest  of  the  way  the  anti- 
quarian kept  thinking  of  the  bizarre  Gipsy 
girl,  and  wondering  how  much  she  had  pene- 
trated into  the  workshops  of  destiny.  Some 
folks  have  been  behind  the  scenes  surely,  per- 
haps she  was  one  of  them.  It  was  Balzac 
who  remarked  that  the  Creator  poured  his 


386  Tales  of  The 

messages  into  some  very  frail  vessels.  One 
has  only  to  think  of  Henry  VIIL,  Joe  Smith, 
Brigham  Young,  the  Fox  sisters,  and  the 
founder  of  Christian  Science,  with  her  many 
names  and  occupations. 

Time  rolled  on ;  one  by  one  the  predictions 
of  the  Gipsy  came  to  pass.  Most  of  them 
were  very  minor  details  of  life,  but  one  or 
two  were  events  of  some  importance.  The 
serious  illness  took  place,  and  for  weeks  the 
antiquarian's  life  was  despaired  of.  Oft- 
times  he  thought  of  the  Gipsy's  words,  that 
he  would  get  well,  it  could  not  be  otherwise. 
They  proved  a  beacon  of  hope  to  his  sick- 
room. 

The  months  moved  along,  as  rapidly 
as  a  flowing  tide,  that  no  one  could  stem. 
The  harvest  moon,  the  drying  leaves,  the 
hoar  frost,  the  chilly  nights,  all  indicated 
the  passing  of  summer.  September  swept  by 
like  some  gorgeous  pageant  as  did  October. 
November  was  ushered  in  with  one  of  the 
most  impressive  days  in  the  life  of  this  young 
man.  He  had  hardly  expected  any  revela- 
tion of  his  destiny,  but  the  events  of  that  day 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  387 

could  never  be  forgotten.  He  had  heard  that 
a  panther,  killed  by  one  Lewis  Dorman  in 
the  late  sixties,  was  stuffed  and  on  exhibition 
in  the  old  Academy  in  the  quaint  old  town  of 
New  Berlin.  He  was  engaged  in  some  natur- 
al history  researches  at  the  time.  He  had 
visited  this  abandoned  county  seat  seven  or 
eight  years  before,  and  wandered  hat  in 
hand,  under  the  shade  trees  which  surround- 
ed the  then  deserted  Academy.  He  had  sat 
on  the  porch  at  the  ancient  tavern  stand  be- 
neath the  swinging  sign  of  the  Golden  Swan, 
listening  to  the  reminiscences  of  the  grey- 
beards of  Indians,  ghosts,  and  panthers. 
None  of  them  had  mentioned  that  there  was 
a  stuffed  panther  in  the  school-house,  the 
famous  Dorman  panther,  at  that,  about  which 
so  much  had  been  written,  so  he  had  doubts 
as  to  the  correctness  of  the  legend. 

But  accompanied  by  the  same  congenial 
friend  who  was  with  him  the  night  of  the 
meeting  with  the  sorceress  at  Warrior's  Gap, 
he  started  for  the  old  settlement  beyond  Sha- 
mokin  mountain.  It  was  a  buoyant,  blowy, 
cloud-swept  afternoon  when  they  left  the  liv- 


388  Tales  of  The 

ery  barn  in  Lewisburg.  Their  first  objective 
point  was  the  hilltop,  or  "New"  cemetery,  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  town.  A  cemetery,  es- 
pecially one  on  high  ground,  always  is  at 
its  best  when  high  winds  shake  the  Norway 
spruces,  and  bend  the  arbor-vitaes  almost 
double;  when  the  distant  mountains  are  a 
purple  brown,  and  the  sun  a  golden  disc  in 
the  whirling  mass  of  smoky  clouds,  when  the 
gold-fish  in  the  fountain  feel  too  congealed  to 
swim  about  freely,  when  dry  leaves  and  bits 
of  hyderangia  blooms  chase  one  another  along 
the  pebbled  paths,  when  the  old  gravedigger 
turns  up  the  collar  of  his  faded  military  coat, 
when  an  occasional  shaft  of  pale  sunlight 
throws  into  bold  relief  some  crumbling  in- 
scription. No  cemetery  was  ever  better  fit- 
ted as  the  resting  place  of  the  glorious  dead 
than  the  hilltop  "God's  acre"  in  old  Lewis- 
burg. 

Perhaps  the  grave  which  impressed  the 
antiquarian  and  his  friend  the  most  was  the 
simple  marble  slab  above  all  that  is  mortal 
of  one  of  the  bravest  and  noblest  of  mothers, 
Mary  Q.  Brady,  who  died  in  1783,  wife  of 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  389 

Capt.  John  Brady,  the  pioneer,  and  mother 
of  the  ill-fated  Capt.  James  Brady.  "All 
tears  are  wiped  from  her  eyes",  is  the  modest 
epitaph.  Her  illustrious  progeny  are  buried 
in  many  different  localities,  but  though  she 
sleeps  far  from  most  of  her  descendants,  she 
is  tended  by  a  host  of  precious  memories. 
Not  far  distant  is  the  tomb  of  Col.  John 
Kelly,  one  of  the  heroic  figures  of  the  Revo- 
lutionary war,  and  a  pioneer  of  Buffalo  Val- 
ley, who  is  also  remembered  as  having  killed, 
in  1801,  the  last  buffalo  in  Pennsylvania.  On 
higher  ground  is  the  neatly-fenced  plot  of 
the  old  Slifer  family,  the  most  notable  mem- 
ber being  Col.  Eli  Slifer,  whose  name  is  fa- 
miliar to  all  who  cherish  in  their  families 
Civil  War  Commissions;  he  was  Governor 
Curtin's  Secretary  of  the  Commonwealth. 
Nearby  is  the  classic  marbled  enclosure  of 
the  Cameron  Clan.  Col.  James  Cameron,  who 
was  killed  while  leading  his  regiment,  the 
immortal  79th  New  York  Highlanders,  at  the 
Battle  of  Bull  Run,  in  1861,  lies  near  the 
imposing  shaft,  and  Capt.  William  Cameron, 
his  brother,  not  far  away. 


390  Tales  of  The 

There  is  also  a  tottering  stone  which  marks 
the  last  resting  place  of  Eliza  Pfouts,  an  aged 
aunt  of  all  the  older  Camerons.  Nearer  the 
main  entrance,  is  a  smooth  marble  upright 
marking  the  grave  of  Lieut.  Andrew  Gregg 
Tucker,  nephew  of  the  War  Governor,  who 
died  in  his  nineteenth  year,  on  July  5,  1863, 
from  wounds  received  at  Gettysburg.  Fac- 
ing the  iron  gates,  and  not  far  from  the  fish- 
pond, is  a  slab  of  weather  beaten  brown- 
stone,  the  tomb  of  George  Derr,  the  son  of 
Lewis  Derr,  the  famous  founder  of  "Tarrs- 
town",  or  Lewisburg. 

Had  it  not  been  for  the  lessening  of  the 
pale  gold  disc  of  the  sun,  as  it  retreated  to- 
wards the  White  Deer  mountain  pinnacles, 
and  the  fiercer  sweeping  of  the  gale,  the  two 
sympathetic  pilgrims  might  have  tarried 
longer.  As  it  was,  they  bade  au  rcvoir  to 
the  kindly,  well-informed  superintendent, 
who  is  a  war  veteran,  and  started  out  the 
broad  pike  for  the  road  leading  across  the 
mountains  to  New  Berlin.  They  passed  the 
deserted  Lochiel  Tavern,  once  the  scene  of 
Steat  activity  and  hilarity;  in  the  days  be- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  391 

fore  the  building  of  the  L.  &  T.  snatched  the 
trade  from  the  teamsters  and  stage-drivers. 
In  the  far  distance,  on  the  brow  of  a  hill  rose 
the  graceful  spire  of  Dreisbach  Church,  the 
"church  of  the  three  streams."  Beside  it,  as 
grey  and  cold  as  the  autumnal  sky,  probably 
as  himself,  was  the  granite  shaft  erected  in 
memory  of  the  deeds  of  Samuel  Maclay,  an 
obscure  United  States  Senator,  by  a  State 
which  has  left  unmarked  the  tomb  of  Col. 
Conrad  Weiser  at  Womelsdorf.  Maclay's 
bones  must  tremble,  his  ghost  must  stalk 
and  gibber  on  All  Souls'  Night,  as  he 
gave  instructions  that  he  await  the 
"last  trump"  with  Presbyterian  exclusive- 
ness  in  a  private  plot  on  his  farm,  on  the 
opposite  hill.  Despite  this,  nearly  a  hun- 
dred years  later  he  was  dug  up  and  re-in- 
terred in  Dreisbach  churchyard,  among  the 
Germans,  "because  the  monument  would  look 
better  there". 

Dark  looms  the  level  ridge  of  Shamokin 
mountain  over  which  the  travellers  must  pass 
before  reaching  the  tree-bowered  precincts 
oi  New  Berlin.  The  drive  is  long,  the  horses 


392  Tales  of  The 

tug  with  might  and  main  to  cross  the  ridge. 
On  the  very  summit  they  encountered  a  snow- 
storm which  hid  everything  in  its  downy 
mantle.  At  length,  the  ruddy  village  lights 
are  seen,  shining  eye-like  through  the  leaf- 
bared  maples.  The  horses,  when  they  reach 
the  level  street,  beneath  the  double  row  of 
giant  trees,  strike  a  nimbler  gait,  and  soon 
reach  the  snug  tavern-stand,  with  the  swing- 
ing sign  of  the  Golden  Swan. 

All  is  brightness,  good-nature,  warmth, 
that  beams  out  on  the  frosty  twilight.  The 
travellers  alight;  an  ancient  hostler,  with 
only  one  eye,  and  a  patriarchal  grey  beard, 
climbs  into  the  rig,  and  drives  it  back  to 
the  stable-yard.  Supper  is  just  on  the  table, 
they  have  time  to  register,  and  wash,  and 
then  take  their  seats  in  the  cozy  lamp-lit 
dining  room.  Once  this  room  entertained 
bands  of  laughing,  roystering  rivermen  home- 
ward bound  from  Safe  Harbor.  To-night 
there  is  only  one  other  guest  beside  them- 
selves, a  tired-looking  country  lawyer,  in 
town  to  claim  an  inheritance  for  a  client  in 
Iowa. 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  393 

The  waitress  a  buxom,  good  natured  Penn- 
sylvania German  girl,  flounces  in  and  out 
through  the  swinging  door,  serving  neatly 
and  quickly.  Roast  goose  and  apple-sauce 
is  the  principal  dish,  it  is  very  good.  A  plate 
of  fresh  roasted  chestnuts,  that  had  been  in 
their  burrs  on  the  trees  a  couple  of  hours 
before,  and  as  a  special  compliment  some 
cider  with  just  the  right  tang  to  it  are 
the  relishes ;  pumpkin  pie  nicely  spiced  is  the 
dessert. 

But  the  air  of  cheer,  the  atmosphere  of  the 
Hallowe'en  just  passed,  sweetest  and  purest 
of  all  our  holidays,  pleases  most;  the  travel- 
lers are  loathe  to  leave  the  soothing  lamp- 
glow.  After  supper  they  sat  and  talked 
awhile  in  the  parlor,  but  there  was  a  damp- 
ness and  a  melancholy  reflected  even  in  the 
family  portraits  in  their  oval  frames,  which 
brought  thoughts  of  bed  earlier  than  usual. 
All  three  travellers  carrying  lighted  candles 
and  pitchers  of  ice-water  ascended  the  stairs 
just  as  the  tall  clock  on  the  landing  struck 
nine.  As  the  antiquarian  was  locking  his 
dot>r,  he  recollected  that  his  mind  had  been 


394  Tales  of  The 

so  engrossed  on  the  big  events  of  history,  the 
picturesqueness  of  the  inn,  that  he  had  omit- 
ted to  ask  the  landlord  about  the  Dorman 
panther.*  But  he  recalled  that  this  was  All 
Souls'  Night.  The  room  he  was  assigned  to 
was  in  the  front  of  the  house,  on  the  second 
floor.  It  was  cold  and  damp,  but  possessed 
the  delicious  odor  of  an  old-fashioned  room. 
The  single  window,  eight-paned,  and  slow  of 
locomotion,  looked  out  on  the  park-like  street. 
There  was  a  kerosene  street-lamp  directly 
across  the  way  in  front  of  the  former  court- 
house, but  most  of  its  unsteady  gleams  were 
lost  through  the  heavy  branches  of  the  trees. 
The  huge  four-poster  took  up  most  of  the 
room,  but  there  was  space  for  two  small 
chairs,  and  a  walnut,  marble-topped,  wash- 
stand.  A  mirror,  gilt-framed,  hung  above  it. 
On  the  wall,  at  the  side  of  the  bed,  so  that 
the  occupant  could  touch  the  walnut  frame 
with  his  hand,  was  an  ancient  frame  contain- 
ing some  wax  flowers. 

The  antiquarian  laughed,  and  thought  of 
his  experience  with  the  Gipsy  fortune-teller, 
over  a  year  before,  when  he  proved  himself 

*  See  appendix  B 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  395 

wax  in  her  hands  by  letting  her  get  his  wallet 
so  easily.  But  she  was  a  wonderful  woman, 
would  all  of  her  predictions  come  true?  Later 
on  he  was  sorry  he  had  thought  of  her  at  all 
before  he  fell  asleep.  What  subsequently 
happened  had  to  undergo  the  suspicion  of 
being  a  dream  caused  by  his  waking  thoughts. 
But  he  consoled  himself  with  the  belief  that 
if  he  had  not  thought  of  her  at  bedtime,  the 
events  could  be  charged  to  subconscious  mem- 
ories. No  one  could  rob  him  of  his  belief 
that  there  is  a  supernatural  world,  of  some 
kind.  He  was  feeling  at  peace  with  exist- 
ence, its  turmoil  and  strife  bothered  him  not 
as  he  sank  into  repose. 

This  is  invariably  the  time  when  tragedy  or 
tumult  stalk  into  our  midst.  During  the  hours 
from  nine-thirty  until  twelve,  the  sleeper's 
dreams,  if  any,  dwelt  on  the  glorious  past,  the 
historic  panorama  called  up  by  the  visit  to  the 
New  cemetery,  the  drive  through  Buffalo 
Valley.  At  the  witching  hour  of  twelve  sleep 
became  less  intense,  consciousness  was  slow- 
ly returning.  When  wakef  ulness  finally  mas- 
tered, he  opened  his  eyes,  the  room  was  inky 


396  Tales  of  The 

black,  the  street  lamp  had  been  extinguished 
an  hour  earlier. 

He  placed  his  hands  behind  his  head,  which 
was  a  custom  he  had,  determined  to  think 
for  half  an  hour  before  going  back  to  dream- 
land. As  he  roused  himself,  he  became  aware 
that  he  could  see  about  the  room,  though 
no  light  was  visible.  He  counted  the  chairs, 
two,  the  washstand,  one,  the  frame  contain- 
ing the  wax  flowers  one,  the  mirror,  one,  the 
bed  was  surely  there,  yes,  all  the  fixtures 
of  the  room  were  in  their  places.  He 
began  noticing  a  strange  vapor  sweeping 
in  the  half-opened  window,  did  it  arise 
from  Penn's  Creek,  or  was  it  generated 
in  the  dense  forests  on  Montour's  Ridge. 
There  was  a  sparkle  to  the  mist,  that  seemed 
unfamiliar,  it  kept  swirling,  and  coiling 
about,  as  if  impelled  by  unseen  force.  It 
began  assembling  itself  by  the  bedside,  as- 
suming the  shape  of  a  spiral,  gradually  solid- 
ifying. As  it  turned  and  twisted  it  seemed 
to  take  on  human  form,  the  outlines  of  a 
woman  in  a  silver-spangled  ball  costume. 
Natural  colors  were  fainty  apparent,  the  fea- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  397 

tures  preternaturally  distinct.  From  a  form- 
less mass  it  became  a  ravishingly  beautiful 
young  girl,  of  perhaps  twenty  years  of  age. 
Her  heavy  wavy  hair  was  ash-blonde,  that 
most  exquisite  of  all  colors,  the  brows  and 
lashes  were  dark,  the  eyes  full  and  grey. 
There  was  a  slight  upward  tilt  at  the  end 
of  the  aquiline  nose,  the  upper  lip  was  short, 
an  "Austrian  lip",  both  were  full  and  clearly 
cut.  The  chin  was  beautifully  rounded,  the 
throat  smooth  and  white. 

She  was  above  the  medium  height,  her 
slender,  erect  figure  showed  off  in  bold  relief 
in  her  spangled  gown.  Her  arms  were  gloved, 
but  the  gloves  were  pushed  back  from  the 
shapely  white  hands.  She  stood  by  the  bed- 
side a  full  minute,  irresolute,  her  lips  mov- 
ing as  if  she  wished  to  speak.  The  anti- 
quarian rose  up,  his  lips  twitching,  but  fear- 
ing to  speak  lest  it  dissolve  her  into  thin 
air.  The  thought  of  the  sorceress  flashed 
through  his  mind.  This  was  the  month  when 
she  declared  his  destiny  would  reveal  itself, 
and  All  Souls'  Night.  But  why  was  this  cold 
little  bedroom  at  the  Golden  Swan  chosen 


398  Tales  of  The 

as  the  place?  He  mustered  his  courage 
and  spoke  to  the  apparition.  "It  is  a 
pleasure  to  see  you  here  to-night",  he 
said,  in  a  tone  of  voice  that  was  not 
his  own.  "How  did  you  find  me  in  this 
remote  corner  of  the  world"?  He  took  for 
granted  that  one  so  elegant  as  she  belonged 
to  the  "big  world". 

The  wraith  found  it  difficult  to  articulate. 
Her  lips  twitched  and  twisted,  the  words 
would  not  shape  themselves.  At  last  in  a 
voice  slightly  above  a  whisper,  and  with  the 
most  conscious  effort,  she  unfolded  her  story. 
"I  was  to  have  been  your  destiny,  that  was 
decided  years  ago,  we  were  to  have  met 
this  coming  January,  in  Philadelphia,  and 
every  fortuitous  circumstance  was  to  have 
worked  towards  our  happiness.  I  was  the 
one  woman  who  would  have  understood  you, 
your  love  of  music,  art,  literature,  and  sci- 
ence, who  could  have  made  the  most  out  of 
your  temperamentally  acute  life.  Ours  was 
to  have  been  a  love  that  would  have  existed 
unchanged  through  the  years,  it  would  have 
lasted  even  into  the  world  beyond,  for  there 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  399 

really  is  such  a  world.  But  alas  it  is  very  dif- 
ferent from  what  any  of  us  ever  imagined. 
You  had  heard  of  me,  but  I  knew  nothing  of 
you,  until  the  day  we  were  to  meet,  and  then 
all  would  have  conspired  to  make  you  the  hap- 
piest of  men,  me  the  happiest  of  women. 

"But  did  you  know  that  destiny  has  a  habit 
of  revoking  its  decrees  ?  In  the  mortal  world 
we  are  taught  that  fate  and  destiny  are  ir- 
revokable,  inexorable.  But  nothing  of  the 
sort,  destiny  is  most  capricious.  A  week  ago 
the  cosmic  forces  veered  about,  I  was  not 
to  be  for  you  after  all.  I  met  someone  at  a 
ball,  my  heart  or  something  was  overcome.  I 
am  going  to  marry  him  in  April. 

"Yet  I  do  love  you,  but  don't  tell  a  soul". 
The  antiquarian  leaned  forward,  and  took  one 
of  the  hands  of  the  gorgeous  apparition  in 
his ;  he  pressed  it  tight,  it  felt  like  a  gardenia 
in  his  grasp.  He  put  his  lips  to  it,  and 
kissed  it  long  and  deeply.  The  sense  of  some- 
thing in  his  hold  suddenly  left,  he  looked  up, 
the  lovely  form  had  gone.  Over  by  the  win- 
dow he  saw  a  mist  trailing  out  like  a  spang- 
led scarf ;  he  thought  he  heard  the  word  "fare- 


400  Tales  of  The 

well".  Then  came  an  ominous,  doleful  sil- 
ence. The  room  became  black  as  the  proverb- 
ial midnight.  From  a  shed  in  one  of  the 
alleys  came  the  strident  crowing  of  a  chan- 
ticleer. The  night  wind  sent  a  shudder 
through  the  maple  trees ;  he  heard  the  swish 
of  occasional  leaves  falling  on  the  flagstones. 
The  odor  of  the  old-fashioned  room  became 
more  distinct. 

Was  it  true,  or  had  it  been  all  a  dream ;  he 
had  no  token  to  prove  the  visitation,  only  the 
memory  of  the  Gipsy  woman's  prophecy. 
Why  hadn't  he  asked  her  if  she  had  ever 
known  of  the  voluptuous  pocketbook-nlching 
witch,  perhaps  she  could  have  established  in 
him  a  firmer  belief  in  her  powers. 

The  sight  of  this  fair  creature  who  was  to 
have  loved  and  understood  him  was  indeed 
enough  to  keep  a  man  single  for  the  rest  of 
his  life.  How  could  he  contemplate  marry- 
ing an  average  woman  when  he  thought  of 
how  a  radiant  and  responsive  creature  might 
have  been  his  own.  But  was  he  worthy  of 
her,  probably  not,  that  may  have  been  the 
reason  why  destiny  cancelled  its  fiat,  or  it 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains 


401 


may  have  been  caprice?  But  worthy  or  un- 
worthy, he  could  go  on  worshipping  her,  per- 
haps in  some  distant  future  year  she  would 
revisit  him  in  the  night. 


XX. 


UNREQUITED 
(Story  of  Vail  Mountain) 


UT  IN  the  mountain  pass, 
where  the  old  time  furnace 
was  located,  is  the  badly 
shrunken  remnant  of  an  ar- 
tificial pond,  which  once 
covered  a  dozen  acres.  It 
had  been  used  in  the  days 
when  the  furnace  was  at 
"full  blast",  but  now,  its 
usefulness  over,  leaks  were  allowed  to  go 
unmended,  it  was  fast  dwindling  back  to  its 
original  size  as  a  mountain  rivulet. 

In  a  semi-circle,  around  the  steep  banks 
of  slag,  which  lined  the  pond,  stood  the  de- 
serted and  decaying  barracks  of  the  vanished 
workmen.  They  were  solidly  built  struc- 
tures of  yellow  stone,  two-storeyed,  slate- 
roofed,  and  diamond-paned.  Most  of  the 
doors  were  unhinged,  many  of  the  panes  were 
broken,  and  the  bats  scurried  in  and  out  in 

402 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  403 

full  possession.  Hosts  of  swifts  flitted  into 
the  gaping  chimneys,  a  pair  of  barn-owls  had 
a  nest  in  one  of  them  that  was  particularly 
dilapidated. 

Across  the  pond  rose  the  crumbling  walls, 
the  tumble-down  chimneys  of  what  had  once 
been  the  furnace.  Sumac,  red-leaved  in  au- 
tumn, vied  with  the  woodbine's  scarlet  tints, 
to  give  artistic  harmony  to  the  ruins.  In  the 
background  spread  the  dark  branches  of  sev- 
eral large  white  pines,  in  contrast  to  the  paler 
tints  of  the  sapling-massed,  coaled-over 
mountain.  It  was  a  desolate  looking  area, 
one  fitted  for  the  habitation  of  a  ghost.  It 
seems  a  pity  that  acts  of  violence,  which  pro- 
duce wandering  shades,  often  occur  in  such 
lonesome  spots.  A  ghost  would  find  more 
comfort  in  a  habitable  sphere. 

Where  once  had  been  the  breast  of  the 
dam  which  created  the  pond,  quite  a  little 
water  still  remained.  It  had  once  been  the 
"deep  hole"  of  the  pond,  even  now  it  was  five 
feet  in  depth  in  the  dry  season.  But  in  the 
old  days  the  water  was  clear,  now  it  was  al- 


404  Tales  of  The 

most  boggy,  the  abode  of  newts,  and  frogs, 
and  skippers. 

At  sunset  a  lone  great  blue  heron,  that 
bird  which  the  old  settlers  not  unappropriate- 
ly  called  the  "gandersnipe",  was  a  regular 
visitor,  finding  the  crop  of  tadpoles  much  to 
her  liking.  Her  mate  had  long  since  been 
crucified  on  a  barn-door  down  in  the  valley, 
yet  this  one  lingered  on,  as  she  could  not 
resist  the  rich  pickings  in  the  stagnant  tarn. 
It  was  a  comical  sight  to  watch  her  chasing 
a  lizard  on  the  bank,  looking  all  the  world 
like  a  skirtlcss  woman  running  about  in  her 
corset-cover.  Persecuted  as  an  "arch  ene- 
my" of  the  fish  she  ate  enough  snakes,  toads, 
lizards,  and  bugs,  to  make  her  immune  from 
the  farmers'  rapacity,  if  they  but  understood. 
There  were  few  persons  crossing  the  moun- 
tain road  these  days,  at  least  compared  to  the 
travel  in  the  past.  Even  the  farmhouses  in 
the  foothills  were  "going  down".  Nobody 
cared,  nobody  wanted  to  stay,  the  big  cities 
down  the  valley  were  too  alluring. 

The  ghost  that  haunted  the  pool  at  the 
furnace  was  in  grave  danger  of  having  no 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  405 

one  to  appear  to  after  awhile.  Deserted 
houses  lined  the  road  beyond  the  empty  bar- 
racks; even  the  farmers  further  on,  showed 
signs  of  dissatisfaction.  But  a  ghost  in  such 
an  unregenerate,  unappreciative  neighbor- 
hood, must  needs  be  a  poor,  puny  specimen  of 
its  kind.  It  was  such  a  small,  distorted  ghost, 
that  the  majority  of  those  who  saw  it,  never 
credited  it  with  being  one.  It  therefore  lost 
the  only  satisfaction  that  a  ghost  can  have, 
the  ability  to  impress  or  startle  folks.  Flit- 
ting about  the  pond  after  night,  it  was  fre- 
quently mistaken  by  travellers  for  a  belated 
"gandersnipe".  Time  and  time  again  they 
made  that  hackneyed  wish  for  a  gun  "to  blow 
the  top  of  its  head  off".  But  while  a  gander- 
snipe  would  have  small  chance,  no  load  of 
buckshot  could  damage  the  anatomy  of  a 
ghost. 

Did  you  ever  see  a  ghost  assemble  itself? 
First  of  all  you  will  notice  a  few  tiny  globules 
of  transparent  water  floating  in  the  dusky 
atmosphere.  These  will  increase  in  numbers, 
dancing  and  shimmering  like  quicksilver. 
They  will  become  more  numerous,  seemingly 


406  Tales  of  The 

materializing  from  the  gloom.  As  soon  as 
there  are  a  sufficient  number,  they  will  be- 
gin drawing  together,  and  as  the  mass  solidi- 
fies, assuming  human  proportions.  Some- 
times if  there  is  enough  cohesion,  or  vitality 
to  the  particles,  the  natural  colors  of  life  will 
be  reproduced.  If  it  isn't  a  vigorous  spirit, 
it  will  remain  the  color  of  water,  or  quick- 
silver, until  it  dissolves  again.  A  spirit  that 
can  take  on  the  colors  of  life  will  persist 
longer  than  a  pale  ghost,  but  the  palo  ghosts 
are  much  more  plentiful.  The  ghost  in  natur- 
al colors  is  usually  a  silent  spectre,  it  attempts 
to  deliver  no  message,  there  is  nothing  to 
shock  it  into  nothingness,  unless  the  destruc- 
tion of  its  environment.  The  pale  ghost  gen- 
erally has  something  to  tell;  when  this  is 
done  it  disintegrates  forever,  even  though  its 
environment  remains  undisturbed. 

The  ghost  at  the  furnace  pool  was  pale,  and 
very  indistinct,  although  it  probably  had  no 
message  to  impart.  But  it  was  frail  and  filmy 
because  in  life  it  was  only  a  wisp,  a  mite  of 
humanity,  a  little  red-haired  hunchback  girl. 
She  was  born  when  all  was  prosperity  about 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  407 

the  furnace.  In  fact  with  her  advent  the 
tide  of  ill-luck,  which  later  engulfed  it,  first 
appeared.  Her  father  was  a  foreman  in  one 
of  the  departments,  and  lived  in  a  comforta- 
ble stone  cottage  a  quarter  of  a  mile  down 
the  road  from  the  pond  and  the  barracks. 
He  was  a  steady,  good-natured  Englishman, 
highly  respected  by  his  friends  and  employ- 
ers. He  had  married  a  good-looking  German 
girl  from  Half  Moon  Valley,  over  somewhere 
near  Gatesburg,  and  life  started  out  aus- 
piciously. The  coming  of  a  baby  was  a  great 
event,  as  both  were  fond  of  children.  When 
the  little  girl  was  born,  she  was  said  to  be 
a  most  beautiful  child,  and  was  idolized  not 
only  by  her  parents,  but  by  the  entire  set- 
tlement. She  was  a  bright  little  thing,  fond 
of  pranks,  and  full  of  activity. 

When  she  grew  to  be  three  years  old,  she 
developed  a  habit  of  running  to  meet  her 
father  on  his  return  from  work.  At  first 
this  was  considered  'real  cute",  but  when  she 
came  up  the  path,  almost  as  far  as  the  breast 
of  the  dam,  it  seemed  as  if  she  was  running 
too  big  a  risk.  Her  mother  tried  to  watch 


403  Tales  of  The 

her,  but  she  would  elude  the  indulgent  par- 
ent. The  mother  could  not  talk  cross  to  her, 
neither  could  the  father,  so  it  was  difficult 
to  control  her.  When  she  ran  out  to  meet 
her  father,  he  always  took  her  on  his  shoul- 
der, and  carried  her  home.  These  were  her 
proudest  moments,  and  his.  It  was  an  ideally 
happy  home,  of  the  kind  which  ought  to  be 
met  with  more  frequently.  When  the  young 
people  went  to  church  on  Sundays  they  gave 
thanks  for  manifold  blessings.  It  was  a 
beautiful  world;  all  was  sunshine  while 
things  went  their  way. 

One  bright  summer  evening,  when  the 
young  father  was  on  his  homeward  way,  he 
was  surprised  to  see  the  little  girl  running 
towards  him  across  the  breast  of  the  dam. 
It  was  a  dangerous  thing  to  do;  on  one  side 
was  the  pool,  twenty  feet  deep,  on  the  other 
the  swift  running  spillway,  with  the  sharp 
rocks  below.  He  was  so  terrified  that  he 
shouted  to  the  child  to  stop  running  at  once. 
The  loud  voice  bewildered  her,  and  she 
stopped  short,  in  so  doing  losing  her  balance. 
She  tripped  over  her  feet,  and  tumbled  head- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  409 

long  down  to  the  rocky  gorge  below  the  spill- 
way. The  father  screamed  in  terror,  and 
ran  to  the  scene  of  the  disaster.  He  saw  the 
child  lying  motionless  on  the  rocks,  with  the 
spray  from  the  overshoot  just  missing  her 
face.  A  little  more  and  she  would  have  been 
drowned.  He  laid  down  his  dinner  bucket, 
and  clambered  after  his  unfortunate  darling. 
She  was  unconscious  when  he  picked  her  up, 
and  she  hung  over  his  arm  as  limp  as  a  broken 
doll.  He  laid  her  on  the  breast  of  the  dam, 
and  ran  up  to  the  workmen's  barracks  for 
assistance. 

Among  those  who  came  forth  was  an  old 
English  woman,  a  modern  prototype  of 
Mother  Shipton,  who  had  some  reputation 
as  a  practiser  of  the  black  art.  She  was  a 
kind  old  soul,  and  knew  as  much  about  sur- 
gery and  doctoring  as  some  practising  phy- 
sicians. She  picked  up  the  unconscious  child, 
and  as  she  did  so,  it  bent  over  double,  like 
a  jack-knife.  With  a  groan  the  old  woman 
called  out  "Oh,  Mercy,  the  little  dear  has  her 
back  broken" !  The  agitated  father,  who  was 
standing  nearby  fell  in  a  faint  on  the  ground. 


410  Tales  of  The 

His  wife,  who  was  hurrying  to  the  spot  as 
fast  as  her  legs  could  carry  her,  heard  the 
awful  diagnosis,  and  also  swooned. 

The  superintendent  of  the  furnace  ap- 
peared on  the  scene,  and  scoffed  at  the  old 
woman's  ominous  pronouncement.  He  sent 
one  of  his  clerks  on  horseback  for  the  near- 
est doctor.  The  child  was  carried  to  her 
parents'  cottage, .  where  she  was  laid  on  the 
bed.  When  the  doctor  arrived  an  hour  later 
he  stated  that  it  was  only  too  true,  the  back- 
bone was  broken,  in  most  probabilities  she 
would  be  a  hunchback  if  she  lived.  The  child 
got  well,  but  she  was  a  hunchback,  as  pre- 
dicted. 

The  whole  affair  was  so  horrible  that  the 
father  took  to  drink,  in  which  he  was  joined 
by  his  wife.  When  well-meaning  friends 
urged  them  to  brace  up,  and  have  another 
child,  they  said  they  wanted  no  more,  one 
had  been  curse  enough  to  them.  When  the 
child  was  about  ten  years  old,  the  furnace 
shut  down  for  good ;  her  father  was  thrown 
out  of  employment.  Most  of  his  fellow- 
employees,  who  had  rented  sections  in  the 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  4 1 1 

barracks,  moved  away  to  more  flourishing 
localities. 

The  Englishman  did  not  care  to  move,  as 
after  years  of  struggle,  he  had  lately  made 
the  final  payment  on  his  house  and  three 
acres  of  ground.  This  added  disappointment 
set  him  to  drinking  more  heavily,  but  as  he 
had  a  good  constitution  he  held  out  until  a 
week  before  his  hunchback  daughter's  fif- 
teenth birthday,  when  he  died  in  Milesburg 
on  one  of  his  drunken  sprees. 

The  crippled  child  was  diminutive  to  a  de- 
gree, but  she  looked  smaller  than  ever  in 
the  mourning  garb  which  she  donned.  On 
the  way  to  the  graveyard  a  young  man  on 
horseback  passed  the  cortege,  tipping  his  hat 
as  he  rode  by  the  hearse.  He  appeared  to 
be  about  twenty  years  of  age,  dark,  and  good- 
looking.  The  preacher,  who  had  peered  out 
at  him  from  under  the  drawn  curtains  of  the 
hack,  said  he  was  the  only  son  of  the  wealthy 
man  who  owned  the  furnace.  "His  country 
estate  is  on  the  other  side  of  the  valley,  but 
he  comes  here  very  seldom  since  the  furnace 
is  no  more".  Then  he  went  on  to  say  how 


412  Tales  of  The 

the  boy,  who  had  been  educated  in  France, 
had  failed  to  get  into  West  Point  on  account 
of  his  eyes.  A  thrill  shot  through  the  sor- 
row-laden little  hunchback,  the  handsome 
youth  like  herself  was  afflicted.  During  the 
brief  services  she  forgot  her  grief  over  the 
deceased,  and  kept  thinking  of  the  young 
hero,  of  her  chances  of  seeing  him  again. 

After  that  she  took  walks  in  the  after- 
noons, about  the  same  hour  she  had  seen  him 
pass.  Within  a  week  she  saw  him  again,  he 
rode  by  gaily  and  unconcerned.  All  through 
the  summer  they  met  every  few  days,  but 
neither  made  an  effort  to  speak.  The  girl 
did  not  dare,  the  boy  did  not  care,  that  was 
why.  In  the  autumn  she  ceased  seeing  him ; 
he  had  gone  back  to  school  in  Philadelphia, 
so  the  preacher  told  her.  But  all  through 
the  long  dreary  months  she  cherished  his 
image  in  her  heart.  The  snow  ceased  being 
formidable,  the  nights  did  not  seem  as  cold 
as  formerly  now  that  she  had  this  ideal  to 
"warm  the  cockles  of  her  heart". 

It  was  an  ideallic  winter,  for  she  often 
forgot  she  was  a  hunchback.  In  her  dreams 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  413 

she  always  saw  herself  perfect,  and  the  hand- 
some boy  smiled  on  her  in  that  land  where 
everything  is  run  to  suit  even  the  most  af- 
flicted. 

The  springtime  was  one  sweet  peaen  wait- 
ing fpr  him  to  return.  Often  she  sat  on 
the  slag-piles  singing  old-fashioned  hymns  in 
her  cracked,  prematurely-old  voice.  On  the 
first  day  of  June,  when  the  air  was  sweet 
and  the  sky  a  cloudless  blue,  her  wait  was 
rewarded.  The  young  boy  looking  more  vig- 
orous, and  handsomer  than  ever,  rode  by  on 
his  slashing  bay  charger.  To  her  surprise 
he  tipped  his  cap,  it  was  the  happiest  moment 
of  her  poor  starved  life.  After  that  every 
time  he  passed  he  bowed,  and  she  smiled  in 
return,  but  he  never  made  an  effort  to  stop 
and  talk.  If  she  had  been  content  to  let  well 
enough  alone,  and  keep  her  hero  in  the 
dream-world,  all  would  have  been  better.  At 
first  she  felt  a  thrill  merely  to  look  at  him, 
then  he  had  to  speak  to  satisfy  her.  After 
awhile  this  seemed  insufficient,  she  must  have 
a  meeting  with  him,  perhaps  tell  him  of  her 


414  Tales  of  The 

love.     She  puzzled  a  long  while  as  to  the 
best  way  to  go  about  it. 

One  afternoon  when  the  preacher  called, 
she  asked  him  in  the  course  of  the  conversa- 
tion which  was  the  nearest  post  office  to  the 
furnace  owner's  country  estate.  He  told  her, 
so  she  resolved  to  write  her  "prince  charm- 
ing", and  make  an  arrangement  to  meet  him 
in  the  pass.  She  wrote  and  tore  up  a  dozen 
letters  before  she  composed  one  which  suit- 
ed. The  completed  version  ran:  "My  very 
dear  sir: — I  have  been  meeting  you  almost 
weekly  on  the  mountain  road,  for  now  nearly 
two  summers,  and  I  would  like  to  know  you 
better.  I  will  be  out  on  the  road,  where  I 
usually  walk,  on  Saturday  afternoon,  after 
three  o'clock ;  if  you  are  out,  please  stop  and 
talk  to  me.  It  would  make  me  most  truly 
happy.  I  hope  you  are  feeling  well  and 
happy.  From  a  friend".  It  was  a  simple 
statement,  but  from  the  heart,  even  if 
it  did  show  a  poverty  of  phrase  and  vocab- 
ulary. She  tramped  three  miles  to  the  post 
office,  affixed  the  stamp  carefully,  and 
dropped  it  in  the  box,  with  heart  a-tremble. 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  415 

Poor  little  wretch,  it  was  her  ambitious 
effort  for  a  little  happiness;  a  vain  moment 
when  she  burst  the  bounds  of  conscious  af- 
fliction, imagining  herself  like  other  girls. 
She  actually  believed  he  would  take  notice 
of  the  epistle.  Why;  merely  because  the 
preacher  had  told  her  that  his  eyes  had  kept 
him  out  of  West  Point,  an  afflicted  man  must 
have  gentleness  and  humility  like  herself. 
She  posted  the  letter  on  Wednesday  night, 
he  ought  to  get  it  by  Thursday.  He  would 
surely  have  it  in  time  to  meet  her  in  the 
glen  on  Saturday  afternoon.  Poor  little  soul, 
she  even  dressed  for  the  occasion!  She  put 
some  white  insertion  into  the  neck,  bosom, 
and  sleeves  of  her  black  dress ;  she  tied  a  big 
bow  of  white  satin  ribbon  in  her  wiry  red 
hair.  She  slipped  out  of  the  front  door,  so 
her  mother  wouldn't  see  her.  When  she  got 
back  she  would  tell  her  fond  parent  all  about 
''the  prince",  but  not  now. 

She  sauntered  up  the  road,  towards  the 
gap,  trying  to  look  unconcerned.  Her  hands 
felt  icy  cold,  would  the  grand  young  man 
notice  it  if  he  shook  hands;  her  heart  was 


416  Tales  of  The 

thumping  audibly.  She  was  so  nervous  that 
she  kept  on  walking,  except  when  she  stopped 
to  gather  an  early  laurel  cluster,  to  give  to 
him.  It  seemed  a  long  time  for  him  to  get 
there,  it  was  long  past  his  usual  hour  when 
she  heard  the  familiar  hoofbeats  in  the  dis- 
tance. She  almost  died  of  joy  when  he  came 
into  view.  As  he  neared  her,  instead  of  his 
genial  smile,  he  dug  his  spurs  fiercely  into 
his  horse's  sides,  and  focused  his  eyes  on 
the  top  of  the  mountain.  The  hunchback,  un- 
prepared for  such  a  slight,  dropped  her  laurel 
cluster,  and  sank  down  on  a  large  flat  rock, 
like  as  if  she  had  been  run  over  by  the  jug- 
gernaut. Her  heart  ceased  beating  fast,  it 
almost  came  to  a  standstill.  She  almost  died 
of  humiliation  and  grief,  then  and  there. 
Death  might  have  claimed  her,  had  not  a 
flood  of  hot  tears  saved  her  life.  With  the 
tears  came  a  fuller  and  more  galling  sense 
of  her  physical  disproportions,  the  certain 
knowledge  that  she  would  never,  never  be 
loved,  at  best  she  would  be  barely  tolerated. 

She  thought  of  her  poverty,  her  shiftless, 
unhappy  mother,  who  secretly  wished   she 


AMONG  THE  GIANT  PINES 

(Courtesy  of  Pennsylvania  Department  of  Forestry) 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  4 !  7 

was  dead,  cf  her  father's  grief  over  her  af- 
fliction, which  sent  him  to  a  drunkard's 
grave  in  an  effort  to  forget.  She  knew  she 
could  never  be  anything  better  than  she  was 
at  present,  or  have  anything  more.  What 
was  life  anyway,  a  system  which  made  gods 
out  of  some,  mockeries  out  of  others.  And 
she  was  one  of  the  mockeries,  why  was  it  so, 
oh  God!  Terhaps  the  cripple  and  the  mon- 
strosity have  a  part  to  play,  which  most  of 
us  are  too  dense  to  perceive,  and  even  the 
afflicted  ones  are  unaware  of  it  themselves. 
They  may  be  living  on  a  higher  plane  than 
the  beings  who  are  "close  to  the  type  of  the 
race"  and  find  nothing  to  hinder  their  whims 
and  passions,  while  the  afflicted  must  carry 
on  life's  duties  on  a  calm  level  of  loveless 
mediocrity.  These,  and  an  angry  host  of 
other  thoughts,  surged  through  the  poor  lit- 
tle brain  of  the  wretched  girl.  She  had 
touched  the  high-water  mark  of  her  life,  in 
her  hopes  which  had  just  been  shattered,  why 
want  to  live  longer.  She  felt  she  owed  no 
one  a  duty,  better  exchange  the  ever-present 


418  Tales  of  The 

image  of  her  affliction  for  the  impenetrable 
gloom  of  eternal  night. 

The  heavy  shadows  were  falling  fast ;  even 
a  June  day  must  have  its  end.  She  waited 
until  she  heard  the  last  cow-bell  tinkle  its 
way  down  the  ravine,  then  she  turned  and 
followed  slowly  after.  She  looked  up  at  the 
tall  pines,  the  lace-like  tracery  of  the  dusk- 
embraced  mountains,  she  smelt  the  odors 
of  fern  and  laurel,  a  night-hawk  darting  past 
her  face  squeaked  like  a  mouse  on  wings.  It 
was  a  beautiful  world  after  all,  but  she  would 
leave  it,  she  was  too  inharmonious  to  match 
its  perfections. 

It  was  dark,  all  but  the  starlight,  when  she 
reached  the  breast  of  the  dam. 

She  looked  around  to  see  if  she  was  alone, 
a  screech-owl  chattering  long  and  dolefully 
on  one  of  the  big  pines  back  of  the  furnace 
was  evidently  her  nearest  neighbor.  She  did 
not  hesitate  an  instant,  her  resolve  was  made 
to  end  all,  she  plunged  into  the  "deep  hole" 
head  foremost.  Twice  she  came  to  the  sur- 
face, but  she  swallowed  water  to  choke  her- 
self, to  hasten  the  end.  The  struggle  was 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  419 

soon  over,  she  went  down  among  the  frog- 
spawn,  newts,  and  eels,  her  injured  spirit 
found  release  from  its  contracted  shell.  It 
was  a  glorious  sensation  to  be  a  disembodied 
spirit,  especially  after  quitting  such  a  body 
as  hers. 

The  next  day  the  poor  little  corpse  was 
dragged  from  the  pond  all  decked  out  in  the 
black  dress  with  white  insertion  and  trim- 
mings. "One  would  think  she  was  dressing 
to  get  married",  said  an  unsympathetic  by- 
stander. It  was  literally  true,  but  the  bride- 
groom was  the  grim  angel.  That  afternoon 
the  handsome  youth  rode  by ;  he  saw  a  crowd 
around  the  cottage,  but  he  spurred  his  horse 
on  to  greater  speed.  He  disliked  crowds,  es- 
pecially gatherings  of  common  people.  He 
never  knew  that  a  poor  little  girl  had  ended 
her  life  because  he  had  disciplined  her  for 
being  "beastly  forward"  in  writing  to  him. 
Had  she  been  a  beautiful  girl,  he  would  have 
encouraged  her,  regardless  of  class. 

But  the  poor,  puny  little  ghost,  about  the 
size  of  a  gandersnipe,  haunts  the  pond  at  the 
old  furnace.  Perhaps  in  her  silvery,  celestial 


420 


Tales  of  The  Bald  Eagle  Mountains 


raiment  she  imagines  that  "prince  charming" 
if  he  would  ever  come  that  way  by  night 
would  deign  to  notice  her  now. 


XVI. 


BEFORE   THE  FIRE 
(Story  of  Tyrone  Mountain) 


FTER  many  years,  the  Caro- 
thers  tract  of  original  white 
pine,  on  the  Bald  Eagle 
Mountain,  near  Tyrone,  was 
invaded  by  the  lumbermen. 
Containing  as  it  did,  some- 
thing under  five  hundred 
acres,  a  portable  mill  was 
selected  as  the  speediest 
means  to  destroy  it.  Most  of  the  biggest 
trees  stood  on  a  level  park  on  the  summit, 
but  trail  roads  could  be  easily  constructed 
close  to  them. 

The  mammoth  trees,  many  of  which  were 
a  hundred  and  seventy-five  feet  in  height,  and 
"straight  as  gun  barrels,"  were  a  sight  well 
worth  travelling  miles  to  see.  Their  smooth, 
golden-brown  boles  rose  from  a  cover  of  ma- 
ple-sprouts and  shin-hopple,  their  feathery 
tops  seemed  to  touch  the  sun.  Most  of  them 

421 


422  Tales  of  The 

were  the  true  "mountain  pines,"  but  there 
were  a  few  Michigan,  or  cork  pines  among 
them,  trees  with  a  lighter-colored  bark,  and 
bluer  and  more  upturned  tu^ts  of  needles. 
It  seemed  a  pity  to  cut  the  trees,  they  seemed 
so  much  alive,  so  happy  in  their  communal 
[  life.  They  were  inherently  musical,  they  al- 
ways churned  the  winds  into  their  mystic 
harmonies.  How  impressive  were  the  sym- 
phonies they  created! 

The  tiniest  breeze  stirring  the  fragile  tuft- 
like  pinnacles  would  be  sent  along,  swelling 
and  growing,  until  it  increased  in  volume  and 
tone  like  a  mighty  chorus.  It  extended  to 
the  larger,  and  lower  branches,  roaring  and 
rolling  with  majesty  and  melody.  Finally  the 
massive  trunks  themselves  would  sway  and 
creak,  like  the  bows  of  overworked  titanic 
'cellists,  as  the  great  climatic  crash  was 
neared.  With  a  detonation  like  thunder  the 
whole  forest  would  resound,  then  the  next 
instant  all  would  be  calm.  Where  a  moment 
before  there  had  been  tumult  and  blare,  one 
could  hear  the  faintest  chirping  of  the  wood- 
peewees. 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  423 

At  the  mouth  of  the  ravine,  which  ran  half 
way  up  the  mountain's  side,  right  into  the 
heart  of  the  timber,  was  a  log  farmhouse, 
with  barns  and  sheds  similarly  constructed. 
Here  resided  a  hardworking  farmer,  named 
Terence  McManus,  whose  lifetime  of  work 
showed  but  a  score  of  acres  of  stump-dotted 
hillside  lands.  He  was  an  Irishman  by  birth, 
and  not  used  to  landowning,  consequently  con- 
sidered himself  lucky  to  have  any  kind  of  sod 
which  he  could  call  all  his  own.  Besides,  he 
acted  as  a  caretaker  for  the  Philadelphia 
family  who  owned  the  big  timber.  For  pre- 
venting the  algerines,  he  was  given  the  right 
to  cut  all  dead  or  diseased  trees,  and  he  never 
abused  the  privilege.  These  he  sledded,  in 
winter,  to  a  mill  several  miles  up  the  valley, 
making  a  nice  income  thereby. 

He  had  married  a  sister  of  this  modest 
sawyer,  who  was  of  Scotch-Irish  descent. 
Despite  his  wife's  Protestantism  Terence  had 
his  way,  and  their  nine  children  were  all 
brought  up  Catholics.  They  weren't  what 
might  be  called  "good  Catholics,"  but  if  they 
had  lived  nearer  to  churches  of  their  persua- 


424  Tales  of  The 

sion,  they  would  have  been  very  devout. 
When  they  went  to  work,  or  to  visit  in  Ty- 
rone, they  took  to  Catholicism  "as  a  duck 
does  to  water,"  which  showed  it  to  be  the 
natural  and  instinctive  religion. 

But  there  was  one  thing  that  the  children 
could  not  do,  and  that  was  to  make  a  convert 
out  of  their  mother.  Many  times  she  prom- 
ised to  "come  over,"  but  always  kept  putting 
it  off  as  the  date  approached.  This  had  been 
most  disappointing  to  the  eldest  daughter 
Mary  Belle,  who  was  at  one  time  the  most 
devout  Catholic  in  the  family.  In  addition  to 
being  the  best  Catholic,  she  was  the  bright- 
est, and  also  the  best-looking.  She  appar- 
ently inherited  all  the  desirable  qualities  of 
her  father's  and  mother's  races.  There  were 
few  girls  prettier  than  she,  so  it  was  acknowl- 
edged in  Tyrone,  and  in  other  big  towns 
where  she  visited.  She  was  full  of  life,  and 
for  this  reason  left  the  ravine  quite  often, 
spending  quite  a  little  time  with  various  rela- 
tives along  the  "main  line." 

When  Daniel  Caldwell  bought  the  timber 
on  the  Carothers  tract,  he  looked  about  for 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  425 

a  suitable  spot  to  erect  his  mill.  It  must 
be  on  level,  or  gradually  sloping  ground,  near 
to  the  timber,  and  the  public  road.  One  of 
Terence  McManus's  stump-dotted  fields  suit- 
ed his  purpose,  so  he  made  a  deal  with  the 
Irishman,  to  erect  it  there.  In  addition  to 
paying  a  rental,  he  agreed  to  stable  his  horses 
in  the  McManus  barns,  to  give  the  boys  and 
the  old  man  work,  whenever  possible.  A  cou- 
ple of  the  head  men  were  to  be  boarded  in 
the  farm  house.  This  was  the  best  stroke  of 
luck  that  had  happened  to  the  over-worked 
farmer  in  many  years.  "If  it  had  come  earlier 
I  could  have  enjoyed  it  better",  was  the  com- 
ment that  he  made  to  his  faithful  wife.  James 
Ewing  and  Daniel  Billman,  two  of  the  young 
men  in  charge  of  the  operation,  were  the  for- 
tunate ones  to  be  accepted  as  boarders  at 
the  McManus  home. 

Mary  Belle  had  happened  to  be  home  when 
the  crew  first  appeared  on  the  scene,  and 
every  unmarried  man  among  them  wished  he 
was  boarding  under  the  same  roof  with  her. 
The  two  who  were  given  the  opportunity, 
were  tall,  slim,  good-looking  lads,  just  a  trifle 


426  Tales  of  The 

over  twenty-one  years  of  age,  and  might  have 
made  favorable  impressions  on  most  girls. 
They  could  not  imagine  why  Mary  Belle, 
whom  a  local  busybody  had  told  them  was 
twenty-five  years  old,  could  have  gone  that 
long  without  having  a  lover.  She  didn't  look 
like  an  old  maid,  that  was  the  strangest  part 
of  it.  Most  mountain  spinsters  who  reached 
the  age  of  twenty-five  without  being  deceived, 
wore  spectacles  and  looked  peaked  around  the 
nose.  Mary  Belle  though  not  stout,  had  volup- 
tuous curves  to  face  and  figure  which  belied 
her  cloistered  existence.  And  yet  the  local 
busybody,  a  grouchy  German,  could  not  be 
induced  to  say  that  she  ever  had  a  lover,  let 
alone  been  deceived  by  one.  "I  knows  all 
about  her",  he  kept  saying,  "she  haint  hat  no 
lover,  dats  all."  "There  must  be  some  mis- 
take about  her  age",  said  Ewing  to  Billman 
as  they  went  to  bed  on  their  first  night  in 
the  farmhouse. 

The  evening  had  passed  pleasantly,  before 
the  fire;  Mary  Belle  had  been  polite  and 
genial,  but  drew  herself  up  a  bit  when  Bill- 
man sought  to  become  somewhat  personal  in 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  427 

his  talk.  When  they  saw  that  it  was  time 
to  retire  they  left  her  by  the  fire,  staring 
abstractedly  into  the  glowing  embers.  "She 
looks  too  healthy  to  be  worrying  over  a  lov- 
er, but  when  a  woman  wants  to  sit  alone 
by  the  fire,  there  must  be  something  inside 
that's  bothering."  These  were  Billman's  last 
words  as  he  blew  out  the  lamp. 

There  were  two  younger  McManus  girls, 
Katie  and  Susie,  who  seemed  anxious 
enough  to  win  the  good  graces  of  the  youth- 
ful boarders.  They  were  pretty  girls,  else 
the  young  fellows  would  have  "pumped" 
them  regarding  Mary  Belle's  heart  secrets. 
But  their  code  was  never  to  impose  on  a 
good-looking  girl,  so  Katie  and  Susie  did  not 
guess  that  they  were  only  makeshifts  for 
their  older  and  more  attractive  sister. 

There  were  other  young  men  on  the  lum- 
ber job,  including  David  Caldwell's  two  sons, 
who  visited  the  camps  occasionally,  and  all 
of  them  tried  to  make  up  to  Mary  Belle.  Al- 
ways civil  and  smiling,  she  kept  a  certain  re- 
serve, which  was  positively  tantalizing.  The 
more  she  kept  them  at  a  distance  the  pret- 


428  Tales  of  The 

tier  she  seemed;  each  day  added  a  fresh  lus- 
tre to  her  round  blue  eyes,  an  apple-like  curve 
to  her  smooth  cheeks,  her  firm,  well-moulded 
chin,  her  generously  moulded  nose.  But  she 
was  acting  a  part,  and  it  sent  her  to  bed  eacli 
night  sick  at  heart;  an  unhappy  love  story 
was  killing  her  by  inches.  If  she  thought 
that  the  camp  could  find  it  out  she  would 
have  run  away  never  to  return,  but  luckily 
no  Nemesis  appeared  to  unmask  her.  Her 
parents  often  chided  her  for  her  melancholy 
demeanor  when  no  strangers  were  present. 
"Oh  Mary  Belle,"  her  frank  Irish  father 
would  say,  "how  can  you  be  so  two-faced,  all 
gloom  when  you're  with  us,  all  smiles  when 
with  outsiders."  But  Mary  Belle  never  an- 
swered, she  shunned  arguments  on  a  subject 
that  dare  not  be  discussed. 

Somehow  she  did  not  care  to  visit  on  the 
"main  line"  any  more,  all  the  old  towns  and 
old  friends  had  lost  their  charms.  Invita- 
tions, even  social  letters  remained  unanswer- 
ed. "Mary  Belle's  buried  herself  alive  in  the 
mountains"  was  her  friends'  version  of  her 
strange  reticence.  Indeed  she  was  buried 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  429 

alive,  for  she  could  not  be  induced  to  attend 
social  gatherings,  she  even  would  not  go  any 
more  to  church  at  Tyrone. 

A  test  came  in  the  form  of  a  dance  given 
in  the  main  lumber  camp  on  New  Year's  Eve. 
All  the  girls  of  the  neighborhood,  including 
her  own  sisters  were  glad  to  attend,  but  she 
remained  at  home  like  a  Cinderella,  before 
the  fire.  Her  parents  were  positively  angry 
with  her  that  night.  At  the  last  minute  they 
hoped  she  would  change  her  mind.  Ewing 
and  Billman  pleaded  hard — one  of  them 
whispering  to  her  that  it  would  be  a  shame  if 
the  beauty  of  the  mountain  remained  away. 

When  the  boys,  escorting  her  two  sisters 
had  gone,  she  burst  out  crying,  and  sank  into 
her  easy-chair  before  the  fire.  Her  mother 
laid  her  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  tried  to 
rouse  her  from  her  melancholy.  "It  is  all 
a  case  of  hysterics,  girls  sometimes  get  that 
way  when  they  don't  marry",  she  said.  But 
Mary  Belle  was  indifferent,  even  when  her 
parents  scolded  her  for  her  mysterious  and 
unsociable  conduct.  "If  you  sit  around  like 
this  you'll  go  out  of  your  mind,  better  get 


430  Tales  of  The 

out  of  here  and  go  to  work  at  dressmaking 
in  Altoona",  was  her  mother's  next  thrust. 
Mary  Belle  was  a  spirited  girl,  but  she  did 
not  answer  back,  she  merely  wiped  the  tears 
from  her  big  blue  eyes.  Her  parents  grew 
tired  of  prodding,  so  they  went  to  bed. 

In  the  "wee  small  hours"  when  the  boys 
and  Katie  and  Susie  returned  from  the 
dance,  they  found  her  sitting  alone,  with  the 
lamp  burned  out,  by  the  dying  embers,  cry- 
ing as  if  her  heart  would  break.  With  the 
passing  of  time,  she  masked  her  feelings  less 
from  the  two  young  boarders,  than  at  first. 
They  saw  her  cry  many  times ;  it  stirred  them 
deeply,  they  would  have  given  anything  to 
have  comforted  her.  For  a  time  they  imag- 
ined that  her  sisters  knew  her  secret,  but 
they  disliked  to  appear  inquisitive.  But  this 
was  dispelled  when  the  girls  asked  them  one 
evening  if  they  had  the  slightest  idea  what 
ailed  poor  Mary  Belle.  "She  came  back  from 
a  visit  to  an  aunt  in  West  Virginia,  over  five 
years  ago,  and  she's  never  been  the  same 
since.  We  wrote  to  our  aunt,  but  she  said 
everything  had  been  pleasant  during  the  vis- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  431 

it ;  there  was  no  man  in  the  case."  "Beg  your 
pardon",  said  Swing,  "but  there  must  be  a 
man  somewhere,  no  girl  ever  acts  like  that 
for  any  other  reason." 

The  sight  of  such  a  beautiful  woman  so 
often  in  tears  stirred  a  deep-seated  passion 
in  James  Ewing.  Her  tear-reddened  eyes 
were  ever  before  him,  he  longed  to  kiss  them 
into  brightness  and  joy.  He  would  marry 
her  to  make  her  happy.  He  knew  that  she 
did  not  love  him,  but  she  might  some  day. 
No  woman's  love  is  impossible  to  a  good-look- 
ing man.  But  to  a  homely  man  her  indiffer- 
ence is  final.  But  the  difficult  task  was  to 
get  her  alone,  where  he  could  declare  himself. 
Like  a  hunted  roe  she  seemed  to  divine  his 
purpose.  He  could  not  catch  her  any  place, 
except  in  the  cold  upstairs  halls  of  the  farm- 
house where  love-making  was  unthinkable. 
She  even  gave  up  her  siestas  before  the  fire ; 
she  stuck  close  to  her  mother  in  the  kitchen. 

Terence  McManus  was  not  born  an  Irish- 
man for  nothing.  He  sized  up  the  situation, 
and  fearing  the  future  of  his  daughter,  and 
liking  young  Ewing,  concocted  a  plot  to  leave 


432  Tales  of  The 

them  together.  On  the  next  Sunday  morn- 
ing all  were  to  go  to  church  except  Mary 
Belle,  who  would  "keep  house."  Ewing,  with- 
out being  consulted  guessed  the  situation,  so 
accompanied  by  Billman  went  for  a  walk  im- 
mediately after  breakfast.  He  had  not  gone 
far  when  he  found  that  he  had  forgotten  his 
barometer  which  he  was  fond  of  carrying: 
he  returned,  finding  Mary  Belle  seated  before 
the  fire.  "You  must  feel  pretty  lonely  to- 
day", he  remarked  in  his  cheeriest  manner. 
Mary  Belle,  who  could  not  be  rude  if  she  tried, 
looked  up  at  him  and  almost  smiled.  He  fan- 
cied that  he  was  going  to  have  at  least  a  hear- 
ing, so  began  talking  pleasantly,  standing  be- 
side her  easy-chair.  He  would  have  given 
everything  he  possessed  if  he  could  have  laid 
his  hand  on  hers,  so  white  and  shapely,  as 
it  rested  on  the  arm  of  the  chair.  Mary 
Belle's  politeness  induced  her  to  ask  him  to 
sit  down,  so  he  drew  up  a  rocker  close  to  her. 
He  tried  his  best  to  touch  upon  the  story  of 
his  love,  but  she  did  not  give  him  an  open- 
ing. When  he  persisted  she  said,  "Oh,  Mr. 
Ewing,  you  know  me  too  well  for  that,  please 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  433 

let  us  discuss  some  other  subject."  Here  the 
tears  began  to  flow,  she  seemed  unable  to 
stifle  them.  So  he  excused  himself,  fetched 
his  barometer  and  departed. 

When  the  family  returned  from  church  at 
noon  they  found  a  very  pitiable  object  seated 
before  the  fire.  The  tears  had  burnt  fur- 
rows in  her  smooth  cheeks,  her  lips  and  eyes 
were  swollen,  her  golden-brown  hair  dishev- 
elled. "Come,  come,  help  get  dinner",  said 
Mrs.  McManus  sharply.  Mary  Belle  arose 
mechanically,  and  started  across  the  floor.  At 
the  kitchen  door  everything  became  black  be- 
fore her  eyes,  she  reached  out  wildly,  tum- 
bled, and  fell  in  a  heap  on  the  wooden  floor. 
Just  at  that  moment  Ewing  and  Billman  came 
in,  and  helped  to  pick  her  up.  They  dashed 
cold  water  in  her  face,  she  soon  revived,  she 
had  only  swooned.  But  her  mother  put  her 
to  bed,  and  there  she  lay  all  afternoon,  her 
pretty  face  staring  out  from  her  mass  of  mat- 
ted hair  and  the  pillows,  for  all  the  world  like 
a  Lady  of  Sorrows. 

As  she  lay,  inert  and  helpless,  in  the  dim 
light  of  the  cold  cheerless  bedroom,  the  story 


434  Tales  of  The 

of  her  sad  young  life,  her  stubborn  loyalty, 
her  hopeless  misery,  rose  up  afresh.  She 
thought  of  her  happy  girlhood,  of  the  host  of 
friends  she  had  known  and  lost.  She  thought 
of  many  men  who  had  admired  her,  of  the 
friendly  feeling  she  had  for  them,  of  how  her 
love  always  withheld  itself.  She  pictured  to 
herself  how  happy  she  felt  when  she  started 
away  from  home,  five  years  before,  to  pay 
her  first  visit  at  a  distance  with  an  aunt  in  a 
West  Virginia  mining  town.  Everyone 
there  seemed  to  be  glad  to  meet  her,  her  visit 
was  like  a  great  round  of  pleasure.  Boys  and 
girls  alike  had  vied  to  make  her  stay  enjoy- 
able. She  remembered,  oh,  so  well,  the  win- 
try night  when  she  went  to  the  church  fair. 
All  her  young  friends  were  present,  and  the 
parish  priest,  so  whole-souled,  genial,  and 
genuinely  good.  She  had  noticed  the  tall, 
dark,  foreign  priest,  who  was  with  the  good 
father,  and  who  kept  staring  at  her  with  his 
lustrous,  oriental  eyes.  She  admired  him 
more  than  any  man  she  had  ever  seen,  at 
first  glance;  he  felt  the  same  towards  her. 
It  was  easy  for  him  to  be  introduced;  the 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  435 

good  priest  who  performed  the  offices,  little 
dreamed  the  consequences  entailed. 

The  foreign  priest,  whose  church,  also  in 
the  mining  town,  was  attended  by  the  famil- 
ies of  the  poor  wretches  who  toiled  their  lives 
away  underground,  had  always  borne  a  spot- 
less reputation.  He  was  beloved  by  his  con- 
gregation, his  deeds  of  goodness  were  legion. 
Tall,  dark-eyed,  firm-lipped,  his  was  a  per- 
sonality bound  to  command  respect,  to  win 
love  anywhere.  Despite  his  physical  charms 
no  woman  had  ever  stirred  him  until  he  saw 
Mary  Belle.  An  electric  shock  shot  through 
his  body,  and  set  his  brain  to  reeling ;  he  was 
subjugated  by  a  force  which  he  did  not  know 
existed,  the  unconscious  witchery  of  woman. 

The  young  girl  herself  was  shocked  to  feel 
that  a  priest  could  stir  her  blood,  could  make 
her  feel  as  she  had  thought  she  would  if  she 
fell  in  love.  Her  conscience  suddenly  became 
dormant,  she  found  herself  talking  most  of 
the  evening  with  the  handsome  "father".  He 
turned  out  to  be  as  engaging  in  manner  as 
in  looks.  He  said  he  was  a  great  believer  in 
destiny,  in  the  divine  science  of  mathematical 


436  Tales  of  The 

probabilities.  He  asked  her  the  date  of  her 
birth — she  told  him  that  it  was  October  30. 
He  said  that  his  was  January  24.  "It  is  a 
sign  that  we  are  suited  to  one  another,  let 
me  show  you.  You  know  that  two  persons 
to  be  congenial  must  have  their  birthdays  on 
dates  which  are  multiples  of  the  same  num- 
ber. Three  goes  into  thirty,  your  birthday, 
ten  times.  Three  goes  into  twenty-four,  my 
birthday,  eight  times.  Add  ten  and  eight 
together,  it  gives  you  eighteen.  Put  three 
into  eighteen  and  you  have  six.  Divide  six 
by  three,  our  multiple,  and  you  have  two, 
which  means  two  souls  in  perfect  harmony". 
Accompanying  a  small  party  of  her  friends, 
he  escorted  her  to  her  aunt's  home  that  night ; 
they  parted  without  making  any  arrange- 
ment to  meet  again. 

But  some  unseen  force  was  dictating  their 
progress — she  met  him  on  a  lonely  hill  the 
next  afternoon,  on  her  way  to  visit  a  sick 
woman,  quite  by  accident.  They  walked  in 
an  opposite  direction  from  the  town;  both 
declared  their  love  before  they  parted  just  at 
dusk.  They  met  every  afternoon  for  a  week, 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  437 

and  then  the  young  priest  begged  her  to 
marry  him ;  he  felt  that  she,  rather  than  the 
church,  was  his  ultimate  goal.  She  loved 
him  too  much  to  interpose  a  word  of  objec- 
tion, it  was  how,  and  when,  nothing  else.  She 
could  go  ostensibly  to  another  aunt's  home 
in  Pittsburg,  he  would  meet  her  in  the  B. 
&  0.  station,  and  then  proceed  to  some  city 
in  Ohio  where  marriages  were  quick  and 
easy.  He  would  then  write  to  his  flock,  and 
to  his  bishop,  telling  everything,;  by  the  time 
they  got  the  letters,  the  happy  couple  would 
be  on  their  way  to  the  Canadian  Northwest, 
perhaps  to  the  Orient. 

He  spoke  in  such  impassioned  tones,  it 
seemed  as  if  the  future  had  been  revealed 
to  him,  that  he  was  acting  out  a  divine  in- 
junction. It  was  very  easy  to  explain  about 
a  promised  visit  to  Pittsburg  "for  a  few 
days",  and  one  foggy  morning  Mary  Belle 
and  her  renegade  lover,  met  in  the  dingy  B. 
&  0.  station  as  arranged.  He  wore  a  plain 
business  suit,  had  a  check  cap  drawn  well 
down  on  his  head,  on  his  upper  lip  was  a  two 
days'  growth  of  dark  mustache.  He  carried 


438  Tales  of  The 

a  large  omnibus  suit  case;  it  looked  as  if 
they  might  be  going  around  the  world. 

At  the  Ohio  town  chosen  for  the  ill-omened 
ceremony,  the  railway  platform  was  thronged 
with  noisy  cabmen,  on  the  alert  for  eloping 
couples,  who  shouted,  as  the  train  came  to  a 
halt,  "Court  house  and  preacher,  Court  house 
and  preacher".  They  chose  the  most  villain- 
ous looking  barker  as  probably  the  most  re- 
liable for  their  purpose.  A  license  under  as- 
sumed names  was  easily  obtained,  she  was 
twenty,  he  was  thirty-two;  a  foreign  clergy- 
man, almost  as  despicable  looking  as  the  cab- 
man, tied  the  knot. 

They  were  man  and  wife  in  the  eyes  of 
the  law,  but  not  to  an  outraged  God.  Their 
first  wedded  hours  were  blissful.  They  man- 
aged to  catch  a  train  for  Cleveland,  where 
they  had  planned  to  spend  the  bridal  night. 
From  there  they  were  to  go  by  boat  to  Du- 
luth,  their  "jumping  off  place"  into  the  Ca- 
nadian wilderness. 

Cleveland  was  reached  without  delay  or  in- 
convenience. In  order  that  no  one  could 
recognize  them  they  put  up  at  a  small  Euro- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  439 

pean  or  Italian-kept  hotel  on  the  lake  front. 
They  had  eaten  supper  in  the  "rathskeller 
car"  on  the  train,  so  asked  to  be  shown  to 
their  room  immediately  after  registering  as 
"J.  W.  Reilly  and  wife,  New  York  City". 
They  had  seen  the  name  on  a  laundry  wagon 
in  one  of  the  towns  they  had  passed  through 
on  their  journey.  When  they  got  to  the  ill- 
kept  room,  they  asked  the  low-browed  Italian 
who  acted  as  bell-boy  to  bring  some  writing 
materials.  The  momentous  letters  to  the 
bishop  and  the  congregation  were  to  be  writ- 
ten before  retiring.  The  sulky  Italian,  hating 
an  extra  trip  upstairs,  having  as  a  precau- 
tion against  this  carried  a  half -filled  pitcher 
of  ice  water  along  with  the  suit-case, 
slammed  the  door  after  him.  The  priestly 
bridegroom  and  his  fair  beloved  were  to- 
gether, for  "weal  or  woe". 

The  young  churchman  stood  by  the  door, 
while  Mary  Belle,  who  was  feeling  a  trifle 
tired,  was  sitting  on  the  bed,  leaning  against 
the  pillows.  As  he  looked  at  her  another 
electric  shock,  more  blinding  than  the  one 
he  had  felt  at  the  church  fair,  swept  through 


440  Tales  of  The 

his  frame.  It  was  the  victory  of  his  con- 
science, of  his  sense  of  moral  responsibility, 
his  religious  convictions.  He  clenched  his 
fists,  and  backed  into  the  furthest  corner 
of  the  room.  His  eyes  and  lips  twitched 
nervously,  his  whole  being  shook  with  emo- 
tion. Mary  Belle,  who  had  been  watching 
him  with  eyes  of  love,  and  marvelling  at  his 
sudden  coldness,  was  now  aware  that  some- 
thing had  snapped.  Yet  he  dared  not  speak ; 
he  would  go  to  his  ruin  first  before  unmask- 
ing his  change  of  heart. 

The  young  girl,  when  the  truth  had  dawned 
on  her,  spoke  out  boldly.  "You  find  you  love 
your  vows  to  your  church,  more  than  your 
promises  to  me,  speak  out  quickly,  isn't  it 
so  ?"  The  priest  was  silent  a  full  minute,  and 
then  simply  nodded  his  head  in  affirmation. 
The  pallor  in  Mary  Belle's  face  turned  to  a 
crimson  flush;  her  temple  of  happiness  was 
a  house  of  cards.  The  priest  leaned  against 
the  wall,  speechless,  and  trembling.  Just  at 
that  minute  they  heard  a  heavy  shuffling  of 
feet  on  the  stairs  and  in  the  hall,  then  a  loud 
knock  at  the  door.  It  was  the  Italian  back 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  441 

with  the  writing-materials.  When  he  came 
in,  Mary  Belle  ordered  him  to  lay  the  articles 
on  the  bed,  to  go  downstairs  at  once  and  order 
a  cab.  The  Italian  looked  at  her  in  blank 
amazement,  the  class  who  usually  stopped  at 
this  hotel  would  consider  it  a  luxury  to  take 
a  trolley  ride.  When  he  had  gone,  the  girl 
jumped  up  from  the  bed,  and  among  her  bun- 
dles, extracted  a  time-table.  By  the  light  of 
the  electric  globe,  which  hung  from  a  cord, 
she  located  a  train  leaving  for  Pittsburg  at 
midnight.  "You  will  have  time  to  get  that 
train,  if  you  hurry.  You  can  be  back  in  your 
parish  without  anyone  even  guessing  at  the 
cause  of  your  absence.  I  will  remain  here 
until  tomorrow,  and  then  go  home.  I  could 
not  feel  happy  to  ruin  your  chance  of  Para- 
dise, just  because  we  happened  to  fall  in 
love." 

The  priest  took  his  cap,  which  he  had  hung 
on  a  peg  on  the  door,  and  came  over  to  where 
she  stood,  under  the  electric  light.  Her  gold- 
en-brown hair  seemed  an  aureole  of  sanctity 
above  her  exquisite,  loving  face,  in  the  re- 
flected light.  His  decision  wavered  again  as 


442  Tales  of  The 

the  time  came  to  leave  her.  Holding  out  his 
arms  he  said,  "May  I  kiss  you  just  once  be- 
fore I  go?"  For  a  minute  she  hesitated,  she 
thought  she  would  turn  her  back,  but  the  hot 
fire  of  passion  conquered  scruples  and  she  fell 
into  his  arms.  He  had  kissed  her  many  times, 
and  squeezed  her  to  his  capacious  breast  as 
often,  when  the  same  dull,  shuffling  feet  were 
heard  in  the  hall.  Then  came  the  knock  for 
him  to  go.  He  got  as  far  as  the  door,  and  ran 
back  for  one  more  kiss,  and  a  pressure  of  the 
hand,  and  he  was  gone. 

Mary  Belle's  bridal  night  was  spent  with 
a  spectre  bridegroom  sure  enough.  She  was 
too  dazed  to  cry,  too  unnerved  to  sleep.  She 
ached  nervously  from  head  to  foot,  her  spirit 
pained  as  much  as  her  body.  She  turned  off 
and  turned  on  the  light  a  score  of  times. 
When  the  light  was  out,  she  heard  rats  scam- 
pering across  the  musty  carpet;  the  noise  of 
snoring  guests  echoed  louder  from  adjoining 
transoms.  She  heard  the  whistles  on  the 
lake,  the  creak  of  hoisting  chains  along  the 
docks,  the  distant  clang  of  trolley  bells,  of 
sodden  voices  in  the  streets.  She  had  forgot- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  443 

ten  to  pull  down  one  of  the  shades ;  it  let  the 
first  streaks  of  dawn  into  the  narrow  room, 
it  looked  even  more  sordid  and  modern  by 
daylight.  It  was  the  signal  for  her  to  get 
up  and  dress;  she  did  not  want  to  wash  her 
face,  it  might  quicker  erase  the  impress  of 
her  husband's  kisses. 

She  gathered  together  her  traps,  and  made 
her  way  to  the  railway  station  as  best  she 
could.  She  got  home  somehow,  it  was  a  pain- 
ful battle  with  self  all  the  way;  yet  none  of 
her  family  could  see  the  marks  of  her  soul's 
conflict.  But  her  manner  had  changed,  she 
lost  all  interest  in  life.  Her  mother  shrewd- 
ly wrote  to  the  aunt  in  West  Virginia — but 
no,  she  knew  of  no  unhappy  love  affair  there. 
"It  must  be  her  general  health",  they  argued, 
"she's  in  a  decline."  Life  was  a  blank  to  her, 
it  could  never  be  anything  else.  Now  as  she 
lay  in  the  cheerless  bedroom  in  the  little 
mountain  home  she  felt  as  desolate  as  she 
did  that  dreadful  night  in  Cleveland.  Once 
the  thought  came  up  within  her  "That  mar- 
riage is  nothing,  I  will  tell  all,  I  will  be  free." 
But  another  voice  answered,  the  voice  of  love 


Tales  of  The  Bald  Eagle  Mountains 


and  duty,  making  her  call  out  "I  will  never 
tell,  I  will  die  first,  I  love  him,  I  will  never 
cause  him  trouble."  Then  exhausted  from 
the  flood  of  unhappy  memories,  she  turned 
over  on  her  face,  and  fell  asleep. 


XXII. 

SIMPLER'S   JOY 
(Story  of  Altoona  Mountain) 


OW  many  persons  remember 
the  aged  simpler  Caspar  Jau- 
don,  whose  log-cabin  home 
was  at  the  base  of  the  Bald 
Eagle  Mountain,  not  so  very 
far  from  Altoona?  Only 
sixteen  years  have  passed 
since  he  went  to  his  reward, 
yet  his  personality  has  been 
forgotten  to  such  an  extent,  that  he  seems 
almost  a  myth. 

He  was  a  striking  looking  figure  in  his  lat- 
ter days,  with  his  shock  of  snow-white  hair, 
his  h.avy,  irregular  features,  thickish  lips, 
and  rough,  shaven  face.  His  eyes,  which  he 
generally  kept  focused  on  the  ground,  were 
light  blue,  as  pale,  and  clear,  and  deep  as 
Lincoln's.  It  was  an  unusual  face,  but  not 
an  altogether  attractive  one.  There  was 
something  about  him  that  fascinated  yet  re- 

445 


446  Tales  of  The 

pelled;  that  was  probably  why  he  became  a 
simpler,  a  hermit.  In  Europe  he  would  have 
been  said  to  possess  the  "evil  eye." 

When  an  animal  varies  to  any  considerable 
extent  from  the  "type  of  the  race,"  it  is  shun- 
ned by  the  other  members  of  its  kind,  and 
becomes  a  hermit-animal.  Some  hunters  in 
Wyoming,  in  the  fall  of  1867,  came  upon  a 
buffalo  with  a  single  foreleg  which  grew  from 
the  breast-bone,  leading  a  solitary  existence, 
miles  from  the  millions  which  composed  the 
herds.  Caspar  Jaudon  was  just  different 
enough  from  his  fellows  to  have  them  feel 
the  unlikeness,  and  for  himself  to  be  aware  of 
it,  hence  his  lonely  life  in  the  foothills. 

His  mother,  the  widow  of  a  Mexican  War 
veteran,  kept  house  for  him  until  her  death, 
but  that  sad  event  occurred  shortly  after  he 
was  mustered  out  after  gallant  service  in  the 
7th  Pennsylvania  Cavalry,  in  the  Civil  War, 
while  he  was  yet  a  young  man.  As  a  soldier 
there  was  nothing  retiring  or  hermit-like 
about  him,  he  was  always  in  the  thickest  of 
the  fight.  But  his  fellow  mountaineers  always 
ready  to  look  upon  him  as  odd  and  eccentric, 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  447 

were  quick  to  forget  his  military  record,  and 
he  was  seldom  counted  among  the  "old  sol- 
diers" of  the  neighborhood.  As  a  simpler,  or 
herb-doctor,  his  chief  glamor  rested,  and  if 
there  are  good  herb-doctors  and  bad  herb-doc- 
tors, he  was  a  good  one.  His  cures  were  leg- 
ion, often  after  the  regular  practitioners  had 
failed.  His  knowledge  of  the  efficacy  of  herbs 
and  roots  came  to  him  in  an  "apostolic  suc- 
cession" from  the  days  of  the  Indian  medicine- 
men. 

Old  Johnny  Half-town,  from  the  Allegheny 
River  country,  who  had  wandered  among  the 
Bald  Eagle  Mountains,  as  far  south  as  the 
Juniata,  had  fancied  Caspar  as  a  boy,  and 
taught  him  all  he  knew.  Half-town,  who  wore 
a  long  white  beard,  claimed  to  have  been 
born  tne  year  the  Declaration  of  Independence 
was  signed,  had  learned  the  almost  magic  art 
of  simpling  from  no  less  a  personage  than 
Joe  Pye  himself,  that  most  famous  of  Indian 
healers.  It  was  Joe  Pye  who  cured  a  whole 
section  of  New  England  from  an  attack  of 
typhus  fever,  with  a  decoction  made  from  the 


448  Tales  of  The 

tall  graceful  plant  with  "crushed  raspberry" 
blossoms  that  still  bears  his  name. 

Caspar's  humble  cabin  was  a  veritable 
store-house  of  relics  as  well  as  herbs.  He 
never  took  money  for  his  efforts  at  healing, 
but  in  the  summer  when  he  hunted  ginseng, 
he  earned  a  little,  sharpening  the  mountain- 
eers' razors.  His  grateful  patients  often  made 
him  many  odd  presents.  These  more  than 
filled  the  one  ground-floor  room,  where  he 
worked  and  slept.  There  still  remained  the 
huge  open-chimney,  old  Caspar  declared  it 
was  more  healthful  than  a  stove;  with  the 
crane  hanging  in  it  just  as  in  pioneer  days. 
Above  the  fireplace  was  nailed,  upside  down, 
a  much  faded  pair  of  Moose-antlers.  What 
a  story  they  could  tell,  of  some  poor,  half- 
starved  wretch  hunting  in  Canadian  wilds, 
maybe  from  sheer  need  of  food,  and  contract- 
ing then  the  very  scurvy  which  caused  him 
to  donate  his  most  precious  trophy  upon  the 
simpler  who  cured  him !  Below  the  horns  was 
hanging  a  cavalry  sabre,  the  sole  memento 
of  soldier  days. 


PENNSYLVANIA  PINE  FOREST 

(Courtesy  of  Pennsylvania  Department  of  Foresty) 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  449 

On  the  shelf  in  a  fly-specked  gilt  frame, 
and  under  a  cracked  glass  was  a  colored  litho- 
graph of  a  French  steeplechaser,  with  the 
inspiriting  name  of  ViVe-la-Chasse,  with  the 
date  "1855"  beneath.  One  could  imagine 
some  sad  Gallic  wanderer  presenting  this  pic- 
ture, probably  of  some  horse  he  had  tended 
in  a  better  and  happier  day,  as  his  supreme 
gift  for  restoration  to  health.  At  one  corner 
of  the  fireplace  hung  a  soiled  and  armless 
doll-baby,  the  gift  it  was  said,  of  a  heartbro- 
ken mother  whose  child  he  had  patiently  tried 
to  save  from  a  snake-bite,  but  without  suc- 
cess. On  the  other  side  hung  a  violin,  much 
stained  and  cracked.  Inside  the  case,  burnt 
into  the  wood  were  these  words:  "Antonius 
Stradivarius,  Cremona,  1729."  In  a  small 
frame  of  crossed  twigs  was  an  old-time  photo- 
graph of  the  simpler  in  the  garb  of  a  cavalry- 
man. It  showed  the  rugged  irregular  face, 
then  adorned  with  the  blackest  of  mustaches, 
the  shock  of  heavy  black  hair,  but  there  was 
the  same  downcast  glance  of  the  deepset  eyes. 

Suspended  from  the  ceiling  were  large 
bunches  of  Joe  Pye  weed,  wild  ginger,  ver- 


450  Tales  of  The 

bena,  yarrow,  tansy,  sweet  fern,  liver  leaf, 
mallow,  mandrake,  catnip,  Blue  Mountain  tea, 
elder-berries,  Pennsylvania  tea,  poke-berries, 
spearmint,  ginseng,  boneset,  Indian  pipe,  sage, 
thyme,  chamomile,  as  well  as  other  plants  and 
berries  not  as  well-known.  These  were  the 
components  of  the  simpler's  herbarium. 

There  was  a  footstool  made  of  buck-horns 
in  front  of  the  fire.  On  one  side  of  the  room 
was  an  immense  couch,  covered  with  a  buf- 
falo robe,  age  had  made  it  almost  destitute 
of  hair.  There  were  only  two  windows,  and 
at  each  of  these  stood  a  rocking-chair,  one 
had  been  his  mother's  favorite.  In  these 
mother  and  son  had  probably  sat  for  hours, 
on  the  long  winter  afternoons,  looking  out  at 
the  narrow  snow-bound  road,  with  the  great 
forest  of  oaks  and  the  sky-line  of  the  moun- 
tains beyond;  lucky  if  even  a  fox  passed  to 
vary  the  monotony. 

It  is  a  pity  that  the  ghosts  of  the  good  and 
the  devoted  don't  return,  as  they  might  cheer 
many  a  lonely  heart.  It  is  only  the  shadow 
of  a  lost  cause,  a  lost  opportunity,  a  lost  love, 
that  comes  back  to  keep  us  company.  That 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  451 

accounts  for  the  unpopularity  of  ghosts.  De- 
spite his  trafficking  in  past  agencies,  in  mys- 
tic formulas,  his  solitude,  his  silence,  Jaspar 
Jaudon  could  never  be  induced  to  say  that 
he  had  seen  a  ghost.  His  mother  was  a  good 
woman,  she  had  no  reason  to  come  back.  He 
had  fought  on  the  winning  side  in  the  war, 
it  brought  no  lingering  regrets.  He  had  made 
the  most  of  limited  opportunities;  his  lost 
love  was  still  alive.  If  he  lived  long  enough 
he  might  yet  hold  her  spectral  essence  in  his 
enfolding  arms,  but  Fate,  inscrutable  as  al- 
ways, decreed  that  she  must  survive  him. 

The  story  of  his  one  love  story  dates  its 
beginning  to  the  years  just  previous  to  the 
war.  Then  the  fair  vision  first  began  her 
horseback  rides,  accompanied  by  a  negro 
groom,  along  the  woody  road  which  led  by 
Caspar's  cabin.  He  was  about  twenty  years 
old  when  he  first  noticed  her;  he  had  been 
born  in  1840.  On  summer  evenings  the  old 
woman  and  her  son  brought  their  rockers  out- 
side the  door,  and  both  sat  smoking,  watching 
the  distant  hills  assuming  the  distinct  out- 


452  Tales  of  The 

lines  and  purple-blue   tones  of   approaching 
dusk. 

The  beautiful  young  blonde  girl,  dressed 
in  her  black  habit,  and  wearing  a  three-cor- 
nered Colonial  hat  of  velvet,  with  an  eagle's 
feather  in  it,  would  gallop  past  like  an  ap- 
parition. After  she  was  gone,  the  night 
seemed  to  fall  faster,  she  was  a  spirit  of  light 
and  life.  When  he  dreamed  of  her  the  whole 
room  illuminated;  she  was  the  color  to  his 
colorless  existence.  When  he  played  his  vio- 
lin, her  image  was  the  impetus,  the  motive, 
which  brought  out  melodies  sweeter  than  he 
knew  before,  or  the  bow  seemed  capable  of. 
When  he  walked  through  the  summer  and 
autumn  woods,  gathering  herbs  or  roots, 
thoughts  of  her  endued  with  greater  potency 
these  natural  panaceas.  At  first  he  did  not 
have  even  a  bowing  acquaintance  with  her 
— after  a  while,  when  they  saw  one  another 
almost  daily  for  months  at  a  time,  reserve 
was  discarded;  she  made  the  first  break  by 
touching  her  hat  with  her  little  ivory-handled 
whip.  Caspar  bowed  in  return;  from  that 
day  on,  there  was  always  the  mutual  salute, 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  453 

in  which  the  attending  negro  footman  joined, 
tipping  his  cockaded  hat. 

The  old  woman  and  her  son  knew  very  well 
the  young  girl's  identity ;  she  was  Elsie  Cham- 
berlin, — from  the  manor  house.  In  fact  they 
were  squatters  on  her  father's  land,  the  ex- 
Judge;  a  word  from  this  august  personage 
would  have  turned  them  off  homeless.  The 
young  girl  wa,s,  an  only  daughter,  but  she  had 
several  brothers,  dressy,  exclusive  chaps,  very 
different  from  her  in  disposition  it  was  said. 

Then  came  the  war,  beginning  with  a  long 
line  of  Confederate  victories.  It  was  a  pa- 
triotic neighborhood,  every  time  the  Union's 
cause  seemed  darkest,  more  young  men  vol- 
unteered. Caspar  wanted  to  enlist  from  the 
very  first  day,  but  his  aged,  helpless  mother 
was  reason  enough  to  make  him  hesitate. 

When  patriotism  reached  a  fever-heat  in 
the  inspiring  happenings  culminating  in  the 
Loyal  War  Governors'  Conference  at  Altoona, 
he  could  stand  it  no  longer.  His  mother  read 
his  thoughts,  she  told  him  to  go  by  all  means. 
She  had  a  brother  in  Centre  County  who 
v/ould  keefc  her  if  he  never  returned.  He  en- 


454  Tales  of  The 

listed  haphazard,  but  got  a  lucky  transfer  to 
the  cavalry,  which  determined  the  success 
of  his  military  career.  By  re-enlistments  he 
served  until  the  middle  of  June,  1865,  partici- 
pating in  sixty  battles  and  skirmishes,  be- 
ing mustered  out  a  First  Sergeant. 

His  mother  met  him  at  the  Logan  House 
on  his  return,  it  was  an  affecting  greeting. 
She  had  aged  while  he  was  gone,  but  her 
heart  was  glad  at  his  brave,  unsullied  rec- 
ord. A  neighbor,  who  brought  her  to  town, 
drove  them  back  to  the  little  cabin  by  the 
mountainside,  in  the  cooling  twilight.  "Very 
little's  happened  since  you  went  away",  she 
said,  by  way  of  carrying  on  the  conversation. 
"Jacob  Stineman  killed  a  black  wolf  in  his 
sheep-pen;  Abe  Arbogast  sold  all  his  white 
pine  timber,  Elsie  Chamberlin's  married,  and 
gone  to  Europe  to  live,  guess  we  won't  see 
her  riding  here  any  more." 

Caspar's  pale  face  turned  a  ghastly  white, 
he  let  fall  the  sabre  that  was  resting  between 
his  knees,  they  shook  noticeably,  and  his  teeth 
chattered.  In  an  instant  he  was  composed 
again,  feeling  ashamed  of  himself  at  this 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  455 

spiritual  insubordination.  What  should  it 
mean  to  him  that  she  had  married,  surely  she 
could  never  be  anything  to  him,  a  girl  in  her 
exalted  station.  He  began  asking  after  an- 
other girl  on  the  mountain  Tillie  Quinn,  and 
how  her  toppy-chickens  were  coming  along. 

When  he  reached  the  little  home,  he  hung 
his  sabre  above  the  fireplace;  they  say  he 
took  it  down  only  once  until  the  day  of  his 
death.  The  neighbors  remarked  he  was 
much  more  serious-minded  than  when  he  had 
enlisted.  "He  saw  so  much  bloodshed",  said 
his  mother,  "it  isn't  to  be  wondered  at."  He 
applied  himself  to  his  herb-doctoring  more  as- 
siduously than  ever,  and  this  coupled  with 
the  temporary  reclame  of  his  war  record, 
brought  him  more  patients  than  he  could 
handle. 

In  the  autumn  a  candidate  for  some  county 
office  stopped  at  tlje  shanty,  a  sort  of  politi- 
cal protege  of  ex-Judge  Chamberlin.  From 
him  he  managed  to  learn  the  story  of  Elsie's 
marriage,  which  had  occurred  the  previous 
April.  The  bridegroom  was  a  wealthy  young 
Philadelphian,  and  the  new  President,  aa  a 


456  Tales  of  The 

wedding  gift  had  appointed  him  Consul  at 
St.  Petersburg,  he  probably  meant  Secre- 
tary of  Legation,  but  such  positions  were 
beyond  the  mental  scope  of  the  candidate  and 
the  unhappy  simpler.  The  young  couple 
sailed  for  Russia  two  weeks  after  the  cere- 
mony, and  from  last  accounts  were  very  con- 
tented in  their  foreign  home. 

Elsie  had  always  seemed  to  be  a  thing  un- 
real to  Caspar,  in  this  new  role  she  was  in  a 
still  higher  sphere  of  celestial  living.  There 
were  moments,  though,  when  he  drew  himself 
up  with  pride  to  think  that  she  spoke  to  him, 
and  had  been  the  first  to  speak.  She  had 
been  an  illumination  in  the  darkness,  from 
her  he  had  learned  to  live  more  keenly  than 
before. 

He  continued  collecting  herbs,  the  selling 
of  ginseng,  and  in  the  winter  trapped  many 
valuable  animals  including  otters  and  pine- 
martens.  Apart  from  his  spiritual  sadness  at 
the  removal  froir  his  gaze  of  the  ex-Judge's 
daughter,  he  had  a  real  grief  in  the  rapidly 
failing  health  or  his  mother.  The  blustery 
month  of  March  was  hardly  tfpent  wheto  she 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  457 

passed  away  from  an  acute  attack  of  pneu- 
monia. There  was  a  simple  funeral,  attend- 
ed by  a  few  neighbors,  and  the  body  was 
laid  to  rest  in  the  little  apple-orchard  near 
the  cabin,  alongside  her  husband,  sons  and 
daughters.  An  old  comrade  once  planted  a 
tiny  American  flag  upon  the  Mexican  War 
veteran's  grave,  it  was  the  only  marker  in 
this  family  burial  plot. 

Caspar's  loneliness  settled  down  like  a  pall 
of  blackness ;  occasionally  there  was  a  golden 
gleam  when  he  thought  of  Elsie.  It  was  like 
angelic  visitation.  Evidently  his  mother  was 
the  popular  member  of  the  family.  After  her 
death,  few  came  to  the  cabin,  the  oddity  of 
the  simpler's  nature  impressed  itself  more 
strongly  upon  the  mountaineers  now.  With 
mid-April  came  many  birds  to  cheer  his  lone- 
liness. The  Jays  had  been  with  him  most  of 
the  winter,  as  had  a  pair  of  snowy  owls,  visi- 
tors from  the  arctic  circle  which  fluttered 
about  the  oaks  at  the  rear  of  the  cabin.  But 
now  came  the  flickers,  of  emphatic  song  and 
flight,  the  mourning  doves,  woodpeckers, 
thrashers',  tankers,  robins,  bluebirds,  mar- 


458  Tales  of  The 

tins.  High  above  the  mountain  tops  soared 
the  hawks  and  buzzards.  At  rare  intervals 
he  heard  the  plaintive  utterance  of  the  mea- 
dow larks.  The  roads  were  still  muddy,  but 
wagons  were  beginning  to  plough  through 
them  with  safety. 

Late  one  clear  afternoon  he  was  sitting  on 
his  buck-horn  stool,  outside  the  cabin  door, 
his  mortar  on  a  wooden  bench,  pounding 
herbs.  He  was  mixing  an  especial  compound 
for  a  typhoid  sufferer  in  a  lumber  camp  five 
miles  up  in  the  mountains.  The  flickers  were 
calling  to  one  another  from  the  bare  branch- 
es of  the  walnut  trees,  a  cricket  was  tuning 
up  his  violin-like  music.  He  thought  he  heard 
the  "slush,  slop,  slip,  slop"  of  a  horse's  hoofs, 
struggling  through  the  juicy  mud. 

The  sounds  grew  nearer  and  nearer,  he 
looked  up,  and  saw  a  big  sorrel  horse — on  its 
back  was  the  former  Elsie  Chamberlin.  No 
servant  was  with  her.  At  first  he  thought 
she  was  a  ghost,  he  couldn't  grasp  the  idea  of 
her  being  able  to  return  from  Russia,  in  the 
flesh.  He  was  certain  she  was  no  ghost,  when 
she  reined  her  horse  by  the  paling  fence, 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  459 

wishing  him  a  cheery  "good  evening."  He 
laid  aside  his  tools,  and  walked  to  the  gate, 
holding  out  his  hand,  saying,  "I'm  very  glad 
to  see  you  back  again."  The  girl  blushed,  a 
guilty  red,  evidently  she  had  some  secret 
thoughts  concerning  him. 

Then  and  there  he  had  a  real  good  look  at 
her  for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  She  was 
more  beautiful  at  close  range  than  from  a  dis- 
tance. She  was  a  blonde,  not  a  yellow  blonde, 
but  an  ash  blonde,  cheveux  de  cindre,  they  call 
it.  Her  deep-set  grey  eyes  were  rather  small, 
but  were  adorned  by  delicately  rounded  black 
brows,  and  long  black  lashes.  Her  face  was 
rather  broad,  denoting  some  Norse  blood,  but 
the  high  coloring  was  emphatically  English. 
Her  lips  had  much  color  to  them,  her  chin 
was  round,  and  dimpled.  Her  black  three- 
cornered  hat  had  forced  her  profuse  hair 
down  over  her  eyes. 

"What  were  you  doing  with  those  things?" 
she  said,  pointing  to  the  bench  on  which  rest- 
ed the  mortar  and  pestle.  Caspar  explained 
to  her  that  he  was  a  simpler  by  occupation, 
not  a  very  remunerative  calling,  but  one 


460  Tales  of  The 

wherein  he  could  do  much  good.  He  made 
bold  to  ask  her  to  tie  her  horse,  and  dismount, 
to  come  in  and  see  his  collection  of  relics. 
He  had  a  ginseng  root  that  was  shaped  like 
a  human  body,  with  head,  arms,  and  legs. 
Some  day  it  would  be  owned  by  the  Emperor 
of  China.  She  let  him  tie  the  horse,  and  as- 
sist her  dismount,  going  smilingly  with  him 
to  the  humble  home.  Inside,  the  first  thing 
she  noticed  was  the  cavalry  sabre — she  must 
know  its  history.  She  seemed  interested  to 
learn  that  he  was  a  veteran  of  the  late  war, 
urging  him  to  tell  her  of  some  of  his  battles. 
She  asked  after  the  old  lady,  expressing  re- 
gret that  she  was  no  more.  She  kept  eyeing 
the  young  man  steadily ;  it  was  a  gaze  caused 
by  his  rather  unusual  face,  a  gaze  of  pas- 
sion aroused  by  his  very  oddity. 

When  he  helped  her  on  the  horse,  and  she 
wheeled  about,  and  rode  away,  he  watched 
down  the  road  long  after  she  had  disappeared 
from  sight.  As  he  returned  to  his  work,  he 
kept  muttering  to  himself,  "Oh  if  a  woman 
like  that  could  only  care  for  me."  He  put 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  461 

her  visit  down  to  idle  curiosity  or  a  desire 
to  pass  the  time,  nothing  more. 

He  did  not  see  her  again  for  a  week,  in 
fact  he  had  never  expected  her  to  come  again. 
But  exactly  a  week  later,  at  the  same  hour, 
she  appeared,  and  spent  a  couple  of  hours 
chatting  with  him  in  the  curious  little  house. 
Before  she  left  she  asked  for  his  photograph 
in  the  soldier  suit.  He  had  recently  made 
the  frame  for  it,  out  of  twigs  of  sassafras, 
it  presented  a  neat  appearance.  She  wanted 
a  glass  on  it,  so  she  loaned  him  one  of 
her  diamond  rings,  to  cut  a  piece  from  a  win- 
dow-pane. 

When  she  had  gone,  he  sat  musing,  sup- 
perless,  until  he  went  to  bed.  "Why  would 
she  want  my  picture",  was  the  drift  of  his 
mental  ramblings.  Like  all  human  beings 
who  are  odd  looking,  he  was  painfully  aware 
of  his  peculiarities.  In  another  two  days  she 
was  back,  arriving  earlier,  leaving  late.  She 
condescended  to  remain  for  supper;  she  said 
it  was  the  happiest  meal  of  her  life.  Words 
like  these  sunk  deep  into  the  reflective,  intro- 
spective nature  of  the  simpler.  He  pondered 


462  Tales  of  The 

upon  them,  turning  them  over  and  over  in 
his  mind.  But  he  would  always  conclude  his 
arguments  with  the  corollary,  "How  could  a 
woman  like  her  ever  care  for  me?" 

The  next  time  she  came  he  allowed  the 
passion  that  had  been  consuming  him  ever 
since  her  first  visit  to  assert  itself  a  little. 
She  was  sitting  by  the  fire  in  one  of  the  rock- 
ing chairs  as  the  day  was  dying,  pensively 
gazing  into  the  embers.  Caspar  put  his  hand 
on  her  warm  cheek,  she  placed  her  hand  over 
his,  he  knew  his  anguish  was  reciprocated. 
He  sat  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  and  put  his 
arm  around  her  waist,  drawing  her  very  close 
to  him,  kissing  her  flushed  face.  To  his  sur- 
prise she  whispered,  "I  love  you".  And  he 
poured  out  on  her  the  pent  up  love  of  years. 
From  that  time  on  these  visits  were  an 
elysium  to  the  eccentric  simpler.  There  was 
enough  good  in  him,  of  common  sense,  of 
honor,  to  appreciate  her  infatuation,  to  try 
and  make  her  happy.  He  was  a  manly  chap, 
and  never  once  asked  her  why  she  preferred 
him  to  her  distinguished  husband. 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  '       463 

Her  visits  kept  up  at  intervals  of  a  few 
days  apart,  all  through  the  glorious  Spring- 
time. The  birds  and  breezes  sung  every  inch 
of  her  blonde,  buoyant  personality  into  his 
soul.  She  became  a  part  of  the  humble  room, 
as  much  a  part  of  it  as  the  cavalry  sabre,  the 
inverted  moose-antlers,  the  lithograph  of 
Vive-lScChasse,  the  strings  of  Joe  Pye  weed, 
verbena,  and  Culver's  root.  She  was  the  sim- 
pler 's  joy — something  too  good  to  be  true — 
but  real  nevertheless. 

But  despite  this,  on  account  of  their  dif- 
ferent positions  in  life  she  was  an  enigma  to 
him,  for  why  should  she  have  chosen  to  care 
for  him  ?  But  we  must  take  what  Fate  sends, 
and  never  question :  Its  gifts  are  really  only 
loans.  But  no  humble  man  ever  strayed  fur- 
ther upon  life's  exalted  heights  than  Caspar 
Jaudon ;  perhaps  because  he  was  wise  enough 
to  be  grateful. 

One  May  evening  while  he  was  leaning 
against  the  Acacia  tree  in  the  yard,  inhaling 
the  odor  of  the  sweet-scented  blooms,  listen- 
ing to  the  wood-notes  of  a  Blackburnian  war- 
bler, he  heard  the  noise  of  a  horse  and  wagon 


464  Tales  of  The 

coming  up  the  rocky  road.  It  couldn't  be  his 
fair  visitor,  she  always  travelled  on  horse- 
back. When  the  vehicle  drew  in  sight,  he 
perceived  it  was  Elsie's  negro  servant  whom 
he  had  not  seen  in  several  years,  driving  her 
favorite  saddler,  harnessed  to  a  high  Stan- 
hope. The  negro  guided  the  vehicle  close 
to  the  gate,  beckoning  Caspar  to  come  near. 
When  he  did  so  he  handed  him  a  small  pack- 
age, then  he  turned  the  horse  quickly,  strik- 
ing it  several  sharp  cuts  with  the  whip,  and 
drove  out  of  sight,  at  a  high  rate  of  speed. 

Caspar  was  sorry  afterwards  that  he  did 
not  ask  the  colored  man  a  few  questions,  but 
at  the  moment  he  was  dumb.  He  opened  the 
package,  it  contained  a  card-board  box.  In- 
side was  the  little  photograph  of  himself  in 
cavalry  accoutrements,  and  a  letter,  he  did 
not  know  if  it  was  Elsie's  hand  or  not,  he 
never  had  anything  in  writing  from  her.  The 
envelope  was  unsealed,  he  opened  it  nervous- 
ly. On  a  single  sheet  of  note  paper  of  the 
commonest  sort — the  kind  that  has  a  picture 
of  the  capitol  at  Washington  embossed  in  the 
upper  left  hand  corner — flimsy,  and  blue- 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  465 

lined,  was  scratched  the  following :  "Mr.  Cas- 
par Jaudon,  Dear  Sir : — When  you  read  this  I 
will  be  far  out  on  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  never 
to  return.  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
it  was  a  mistake  ever  to  have  visited  you.  I 
do  not  see  what  I  meant  by  so  doing.  I  re- 
turn your  photograph,  as  I  have  no  further 
use  for  it.  I  remain,  Yours  truly,  E.  C.  M." 
M.  was  the  initial  of  the  last  name  of  her 
diplomatist  husband,  the  simpler  recollected. 
It  might  have  been  well  to  have  preserved  the 
letter,  but  in  his  wounded  pride,  and  collapsed 
romance,  he  tore  it  into  little  bits,  letting  the 
evening  zephyr  blow  them  about  the  yard. 
He  went  in  the  humble  home,  now  doubly 
desolate,  and  placed  the  photograph  upon  the 
mantel-shelf.  As  he  did  so,  he  whispered  to 
himself,  "A  woman  like  that  could  never  care 
for  me."  He  made  no  effort  to  find  out  what 
had  happened,  whether  her  husband  had 
learned  everything,  or  whether  she  tired  of 
him  through  feminine  caprice.  He  could 
hardly  write;  besides  getting  a  letter  off  to 
Europe,  would  be  a  task  almost  like  sending 
one  to  "The  Home  Beyond  the  Sky." 


466  Tales  of  The 

He  accepted  his  sorrow  with  silent  resigna- 
tion. Whenever  the  beautiful  vision  rose  in 
his  mind,  while  he  worked  over  his  herbs,  or 
lay  sleepless  under  the  buffalo  robe,  he  would 
calm  his  burning  disappointment  by  repeat- 
ing over  and  over  again,  "How  could  a 
woman  like  that  be  expected  to  care  for  me." 
Of  course  he  could  not  analyze  the  passionate 
vagary  which  brought  her  to  him  in  the  first 
place,  the  magnetic  charm  of  his  repulsive  but 
compelling  face.  It  was  to  him  much  like  a 
person  who  has  seen  an  apparition,  yet  can- 
not ask  the  "whys"  and  "wherefores." 
Months  became  years,  he  worked  on,  he  suf- 
fered uncomplainingly,  becoming  more  and 
more  like  a  hermit  or  "old  man  of  the  woods" 
in  appearance.  His  black  hair  became  full 
of  grey  streaks  even  when  he  was  well  under 
thirty. 

Two  years  after  he  had  received  his  crush- 
ing blow,  a  chance  came  to  him  to  learn  a 
gleam  of  the  truth.  The  self-same  candidate, 
the  ex-Judge's  protege  appeared  at  the  hum- 
ble cottage,  to  enlist  Caspar's  support  for  "a 
second  term."  The  candidate  was  a  talkative 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  467 

fellow,  he  liked  to  gossip.  "Elsie  Chamber- 
lin  went  back  to  Russia  awful  sudden",  he 
remarked,  "she  didn't  write  her  husband  very 
regular,  so  he  came  home  unexpected,  and 
found  that  she  had  been  meeting  some  man, 
I  could  never  find  out  who  he  was,  on  the 
sly,  at  least  that's  what  they  say.  At  any 
rate  he  made  her  pack  up  bag  and  baggage 
and  go  back  to  Europe  with  him.  That's 
where  she  is  now,  but  the  Judge's  folks  don't 
hear  from  her  often.  They  tell  it  around 
that  she's  having  a  very  gay  time  over  there 
with  all  the  high  muckymucks." 

This  speech  opened  a  vista  of  comfort  to 
the  heart-stung  simpler.  He  closed  his  eyes, 
he  folded  his  hands.  Perhaps  after  all  she 
had  not  tired  of  him,  it  was  force  rather  than 
choice  that  tore  her  from  his  side.  Their 
romance  had  progressed  as  far  as  was  possi- 
ble, there  was  no  future  to  it,  they  never 
could  have  married.  Yet  she  had  whispered 
to  him  many  times,  "I  love  you,  I  love  you." 
He  had  held  her  very  close,  he  could  feel  her 
flushed  cheek  by  his,  his  fingers  running 
through  the  electric  meshes  of  her  ash-gold 


468  Tales  of  The  Bald  Eagle  Mountains 

hair.  That  was  equivalent  to  reaching  the 
threshold  of  the  divine.  The  candidate  no- 
ticed that  he  was  acting  rather  strangely,  evi- 
dently this  talk  about  the  aristocracy  was  dis- 
quieting. He  started  to  go,  but  Caspar  of- 
fered to  accompany  him,  to  introduce  him  to 
some  good  people  on  the  mountain  who  might 
help  him.  He  was  delighted,  he  had  long 
wanted  the  "right"  introduction  to  these  peo- 
ple. The  simpler  felt  that  this  man  had  done 
him  the  greatest  favor  of  his  life,  he  had 
shown  him  a  gleam  of  hope  that  Elsie's  love 
was  probably  real,  that  at  worst  she  had 
merely  turned  back  when  Fate  and  Circum- 
stance commanded.  "Besides"  he  whispered 
to  himself,  as  he  climbed  into  the  politician's 
buggy,  "How  could  a  woman  like  that  be  ex- 
pected to  care  for  me." 


XXIII. 


IRONCUTTER'S  CABIN 
(Story  of  the  Last  Mountain) 


|HERE  the  Bald  Eagle  Moun- 
tain comes  to  an  abrupt  end 
north  of  Hollidaysburg,  and 
looks  down  upon  the  fertile 
plain,  then  forms  a  coalition 
with  the  Shade  Mountain, 
rolling  away  to  the  east, 
there  once  stood  a  lowly  one- 
roomed  log  cabin.  It  was 


destitute  of  windows,  and  the  door  was  not 
half  a  door,  it  was  kept  shut  so  much.  The 
most  noticeable  feature  of  the  shack  was  a 
huge  mud  chimney  which  was  nearly  as  wide, 
and  twice  as  high  as  the  house  itself.  This 
chimney  saved  the  house  from  being  dubbed 
"deserted"  for  once  in  a  while  a  thin  trail  of 
blue-grey  smoke  issued  from  it,  smoke  about 
the  color  of  Indian  summer  haze.  Back  of 
the  house  rose  the  steep  face  of  the  big  moun- 
tain, its  lower  levels  covered  with  gnarled 

469 


470  Tales  of  The 

rock-oaks  and  chestnuts,  and  higher  up  a 
dense  network  of  stunted  pitch  pines.  Below 
the  cabin  was  a  broad  clearing,  fast  growing 
up  with  scrub-oaks,  despite  the  efforts  of  a 
small  flock  of  sheep  to  pasture  it  bare.  Be- 
yond stretched  the  fertile  valleys,  with  their 
fields  of  brown,  and  red,  and  yellow,  inter- 
spersed with  dark  green  woodlots. 

The  growing  town  was  plainly,  apparent ; 
here  and  there  could  be  seen  the  red  roofs  of 
barns  and  farmsteads,  and  an  occasional 
church  spire.  Far  in  the  distance  ran  the 
faint  blue  outline  of  the  South  Mountains.  All 
in  front  of  the  cabin  seemed  smiling,  thrifty, 
cultivated,  behind  it  loomed  the  end  of  the 
Central  Pennsylvania  wilderness,  which 
stretched  a  hundred  miles  or  more,  clear  to 
the  rock-caverns  of  the  panther  and  the  wolf, 
to  the  swamps  of  the  elk  and  deer,  to  the 
inaccessible  pathways  of  the  bison,  to  the 
areas  where  the  sun  for  days  would  be  dark- 
ened by  the  incessant  flight  of  wild  pigeons. 

There  the  Indians  made  their  final  stand, 
retreating  only  af£er  the  disappearance  of  the 
last  buffalo,  the  last  white-spotted  bee.  But 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  471 

they  remained  in  song  and  story,  and  in  a 
troop  of  melancholy  ghosts  that  lingered 
among  the  rocks  and  waterfalls.  But  when 
John  Ironcutter  moved  into  his  little  shack 
near  the  base  of  the  Last  Mountain,  wild  life, 
Indians,  and  settlers  were  still  embroiled  far 
off  in  the  fastnesses  of  the  Bald  Eagles.  The 
spirit  of  primitive  days  was  still  uppermost. 
You  can  sometimes  feel  that  vague  sensation 
still  if  you  gaze  long  enough  upon  some  par- 
ticularly wild  bit  of  scenery.  Ironcutter  felt 
it  in  his  veins ;  it  echoed  and  reverberated  in 
the  stunted  pines  on  the  rugged  heights  of 
the  Last  Mountain. 

Fifty  years  of  hermit-like  existence,  at  the 
foot  of  this  eminence,  had  passed  over  his 
head.  He  had  been  there  so  long  that  he  had 
outlived  all  the  other  settlers  who  were  in 
the  neighborhood  when  he  arrived.  He  had 
outlived  the  thrilling  story  of  his  youth.  It 
was  just  old  enough  to  be  in  shape  to  be  for-, 
gotten,  and  not  sufficiently  in  the  long  ago 
to  make  history.  Apart  from  his  hermit  char- 
acteristics, his  earliest  neighbors  had  shunned 
him,  calling  him  "the  Indian  killer."  He  had 


472  Tales  of  The 

outlived  that  name,  not  that  he  cared,  but  it 
was  an  unpleasant  appellation  to  carry  about. 
After  half  a  century  there  was  an  air  oi 
dignity  about  the  old  man,  a  halo  of  romance 
and  mystery.  Age  gives  a  glamor  to  the  most 
commonplace,  the  John  Ironcutter  of  eighty 
odd  years,  commanded  respect,  whereas  the 
John  Ironcutter,  rough  German  peasant  of 
nineteen,  had  not.  His  ponderous  form  and 
face,  the  heavy,  aquiline  features,  his  slug- 
gish walk,  his  impenetrable  silence,  all  gave 
him  an  atmosphere  that  was  hard  to  forget. 
He  never  once  told  his  life's  story,  conse- 
quently there  were  a  score  of  hazards.  Had 
he  told  it  once,  the  secret  out,  would  not  be 
worth  repeating  or  speculating  about.  Then 
all  at  once  he  cast  aside  the  habiliments  of 
the  hermit,  becoming  actually  sociable,  gen- 
ial, and  frank.  The  children  whom  he  former- 
ly shunned,  he  made  his  warmest  friends.  But 
oome  said  that  the  change  had  come  too  late, 
he  could  not  survive  it  long,  that  the  real  Iron- 
cutter  had  died,  and  a  fresher  and  younger 
spirit  had  crawled  into  the  crumbling  tene- 
ment, just  as  the  faded  soul  was  departing. 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  473 

But  the  old  man  continued  to  defy  all  prece- 
dents, living  on  to  his  ninety-first  year.  When 
he  died  it  was  from  old  age,  a  clear  conscience 
issued  from  the  tumbledown  shell,  a  mild 
spirit  sought  glory.  John  Ironcutter's  his- 
tory was  a  most  unusual  one.  His  name  now 
appears  in  history,  in  connection  with  a 
bloodthirsty  episode,  but  many  say  that  here 
like  in  divers  other  cases,  history  errs.  Iron- 
cutter's  beginnings  were  humble  and  sordid 
enough.  He  had  run  away  from  his  German 
home  as  a  boy  of  fifteen  and  somehow  got  to 
Rotterdam.  There  he  sold  himself  for  his 
passage  to  Pennsylvania,  falling  into  the 
hands  of  a  wealthy  landowner,  Frederick 
Stump,  of  Middle  Creek  Valley,  upon  his  ar- 
rival in  the  province.  Stump  picked  him  out 
of  a  crowd  of  a  hundred  low-browed  ruffians 
on  the  Front  Street  wharves  in  Philadelphia, 
as  being  the  most  likely  of  the  lot.  The  choice 
was  a  good  one,  as  the  lad  early  displayed  in- 
telligence as  well  as  fidelity,  a  rare  trait  for 
the  ill-born,  of  no  mean  order.  He  became 
his  employer's  right  hand  man,  and  when  he 
was  nineteen  was  appointed  overseer  of  one 


474  Tales  of  The 

of  his  farms.  He  was  treated  on  terms  of 
ecuality  by  his  master,  who  although  a  gradu- 
ate of  the  University  of  Bonn,  and  a  man  of 
some  breeding,  was  of  plain  and  democratic 
manners. 

His  future  seemed  a  bright  one,  leading  per- 
haps to  a  marriage  with  some  niece  or  de- 
pendent of  the  landed  proprietor,  and  a  pros- 
perous old  age.  Then  occurred  the  catas- 
trophe which  brought  his  bright  hopes  tum- 
bling about  his  feet  like  so  many  pieces  of 
broken  glass.  Then  came  ten  years  of  hiding 
and  wandering,  followed  by  a  half  century 
in  the  hermitage.  Out  of  this  musty  chrys- 
alis emerged  the  regenerated  old  man,  who 
bloomed  like  a  crop  of  fall  clover  for  a  while, 
and  then  stumbled  off  to  his  reward. 

Frederick  Stump  was  a  liberal-minded  man, 
and  possessed  a  broad  spirit  of  tolerance  to- 
wards the  Indians.  He  fed  them  in  Winter, 
gave  them  sound  advice,  as  well  as  gifts  in- 
numerable. There  were  always  three  or  four 
savages  hanging  around  his  commodious 
mansion.  It  was  the  finest  house  of  its  day 
in  Middle  Creek  Valley.  Built  of  limestone, 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  475 

of  herring-bone  construction,  with  a  broad 
chimney,  and  the  Stump  coat-of-arms  carved 
out  of  a  block  of  sandstone,  imbedded  below 
the  gable,  it  was  a  conspicuous  landmark. 
Inside  was  a  wide  hall,  with  a  winding  stair- 
way ;  there  were  spacious  rooms,  along  whose 
walls  gaped  great  closets  running  from  floor 
to  ceiling  with  carved  walnut  doors  and  fres- 
coed lintels.  It  was  a  home  fitted  to  start 
a  dynasty,  yet  Stump  was  driven  from  it 
suddenly,  never  to  see  it  again  to  his  dying 
day. 

He  died  at  a  very  advanced  age,  in  Miller- 
stadt,  afterwards  called  Woodstock,  in  Vir- 
ginia. Stump  had  a  favorite  nephew,  Balzer 
Minnich,  whose  wife  was  kidnapped  in  broad 
daylight  by  a  roving  band  of  drunken  In- 
dians. Stump,  Minnich,  and  the  servant, 
Jroncutter  found  it  out  none  too  soon,  and 
trailed  the  redmen  to  their  camp.  They  res- 
cued the  young  woman,  but  in  the  battle 
killed  six  Indians.  Three  Indian  women,  be- 
longing to  the  party,  committed  suicide  for 
fear  that  they  would  be  imprisoned,  and  one 
squaw,  who  had  an  infant,  butchered  it.  To 


476  Tales  of  The 

get  them  out  of  the  way,  all  the  bodies  were 
dumped  into  Middle  Creek,  through  a  hole 
in  the  ice.  At  least  this  is  the  story  that 
Stump's  relatives  and  partisans  told  at  the 
time;  it  was  pretty  generally  believed,  even 
if  it  never  got  into  history. 

Minnich  and  his  wife  opportunely  left  the 
country,  but  Stump  and  Ironcutter,  after  the 
bodies  had  appeared  in  the  Susquehanna  near 
the  Isle  of  Que,  were  arrested.  Sympathy 
waxed  strong  for  them,  as  it  was  considered 
a  Quaker  plot  to  curry  favor  with  the  In- 
dians at  the  expense  of  two  obscure  Germans. 
The  prisoners  were  lodged  in  the  jail  at  Car- 
lisle, but  a  determined  mob  led  by  James 
and  John  Morrow,  two  noted  pioneers,  res- 
cued the  prisoners,  and  they  were  never  re- 
captured. Stump,  as  stated  previously,  drifted 
to  Virginia,  while  Ironcutter  became  a  wan- 
derer in  the  Pennsylvania  Mountains.  The 
shock  of  the  butchery  had  unsettled  his  mind, 
it  was  said;  he  suffered  from  delusions  and 
hallucinations.  Many  of  his  sympathizers 
harbored  him,  trying  to  give  him  work,  but 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  477 

his  familiar  ghost  urged  him  ever  onward 
like  the  wandering  Jew. 

During  the  massacre,  he  had  singled  out 
a  young  Indian  named  White  Feather,  of 
about  his  own  age,  and  size,  whom  he  deter- 
mined to  kill.  It  was  a  bitter  struggle  as 
the  youths  were  evenly  matched,  but  finally 
Ironcutter  dashed  his  knife  into  the  red- 
skin's throat.  It  was  a  mortal  wound,  and 
the  young  savage  sank  down  on  his  knees. 
"Oh  brother  white  man",  he  sobbed  in  his 
dying  breath,  "my  loved  one  is  waiting  for 
me  to-night,  over  on  Shreiner's  Knob,  please 
go  tell  her  that  I  will  never  meet  her  in  this 
world,  but  I  will  surely  keep  my  tryst  in 
the  next".  Tears  were  running  down  the 
dying  lover's  cheeks,  he  made  a  pitiable  spec- 
tacle, all  blood  and  tears.  But  Ironcutter  was 
in  an  ugly  mood,  he  mimicked  his  expiring 
foe,  saying  to  him  just  as  his  eyes  were  glaz- 
ing, "Let  your  cursed  sweetheart  wait,  I  will 
not  go  a  step  to  tell  her,  let  her  think  you 
have  gone  off  with  someone  else".  He  would 
have  said  more,  but  the  poor  young  savage 
was  dead.  He  kicked  the  rigid  face  a  couple 


478  Tales  of  The 

of  times,  and  then  dragged  the  corpse  by  the 
heels,  and  threw  it  on  the  pile  with  the  other 
victims  of  Stump's  fury.  He  helped  cut  the 
hole  in  the  ice,  and  push  the  bloody  mess 
into  Middle  Creek.  He  was  too  proud  of  his 
achievement  to  notice  such  a  thing  as  an 
angry  wraith  until  after  his  delivery  from 
Carlisle  Jail.  He  had  parted  from  Stump, 
and  a  settler  named  McCaslin,  who  lived  in 
a  remote  glen  in  the  North  Mountains,  hid 
him  in  his  barn.  It  was  in  this  structure, 
built  of  rough-logs,  and  in  the  haymow  that 
occurred  the  nativity  of  his  conscience.  It 
was  on  a  chilly  midnight,  starless  and  still, 
that  he  heard  a  voice  speaking  to  him  from 
the  rafters  above.  He  thought  at  first  it 
was  a  bevy  of  barn  owls  quarreling  as  to 
which  controlled  the  beam.  "Oh  brother 
white  man",  in  tones  measured  and  low,  came 
to  his  ears,  "my  loved  one  is  waiting  for  me 
to-night,  over  on  Shreiner's  Knob,  please  go 
tell  her  that  I  will  never  meet  her  in  this 
world,  but  I  will  surely  keep  my  tryst  in 
the  next". 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  479 

The  words  of  this  disembodied  voice  sound- 
ed familiar ;  he  was  about  to  answer  with  un- 
couth jest,  when  he  felt  a  pressure  at  his 
throat.  He  could  not  articulate ;  at  the  same 
time  arose  in  him  for  the  first  time  a  pang 
of  regret  for  the  Indian  lover  he  had  slain 
on  Middle  Creek.  A  haunting  sense  of  fear 
overcame  him,  he  climbed  out  of  the  mow  as 
best  he  could,  tripping  over  joists  and  beams, 
and  cutting  his  shins  badly  on  a  Dutch  scythe. 
Just  as  he  emerged  from  the  barn-door  he 
beheld  the  figure  of  the  murdered  Indian  not 
twenty  paces  in  front  of  him,  with  one  hand 
held  across  the  angry  gash  in  his  throat. 
Ironcutter  uttered  a  piercing  yell,  the  spectre 
vanished  instantly. 

Next  morning  MeCaslin's  family  found 
the  German  lying  unconscious  in  the  barn- 
yard. It  was  a  week  before  he  came  out  of 
his  trance,  or  unconscious  state.  When  he 
did,  he  said  he  had  seen  a  ghost,  he  refused 
to  remain  longer  at  a  haunted  plantation. 
With  the  ingratitude  inherent  to  ill-bred  men, 
he  departed  without  a  word  of  thanks.  For 
ten  weary  years  he  moved  from  place  to 


480  Tales  of  The 

place  through  the  mountains.  He  was  always 
waked  by  the  voice  of  the  unhappy  lover,  he 
always  ran  from  bunk  or  mow  into  the  open, 
there  to  see  the  avenging  wraith.  He  passed 
through  Dry  Valley,  Buffalo  Valley,  White 
Deer  Valley,  and  into  the  mazes  of  the  Bald 
Eagle  Mountains.  There  seemed  to  be  no 
peace  on  earth  for  him,  he  wished  every  day 
that  he  might  die.  Once  he  shot  himself, 
once  he  leaped  into  a  mill-race,  once  a  copper- 
head bit  him,  but  somehow  it  was  ordained 
he  must  live  and  suffer.  As  he  followed  the 
chain  of  the  Bald  Eagle  mountains,  he  al- 
ways imagined  that  the  next  peak  further 
on  would  give  him  relief.  But  each  one 
seemed  to  house  the  torment,  keener  and 
more  horrible.  He  feared  to  turn  back;  like 
the  Wandering  Jew,  he  must  go  on.  His  story 
preceded  him.  The  sympathetic  mountain- 
eers were  ever  ready  to  receive  "John  Iron- 
cutter  the  Indian  killer".  Frederick  Stump 
and  Minnich  were  overlooked,  the  story  was 
told  that  Ironcutter  killed  ten  Indians,  some- 
times it  was  twenty,  it  did  not  matter  much. 
Perhaps  the  best  friend  that  the  tormented 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  481 

man-killer  met  in  his  wanderings  was  a  cer- 
tain Roan  McCann,  who  occupied  a  neat  lit- 
tle clearing  not  far  from  the  present  site 
of  Port  Matilda. 

And  strangely  enough  he  was  a  bosom 
friend  of  Old  Frank,  the  celebrated  Indian 
chief  from  whom  Frankstown  received  its 
name.  Some  whispered  that  Old  Frank  had 
told  McCann  that  a  spell  had  been  put  on 
Ironcutter,  and  that  he  had  suffered  enough, 
at  any  rate  he  was  merciful.  He  advised  the 
German  to  cease  his  errant  habits,  to  go  live 
by  himself,  offering  him  lifelong  use  of  his 
hunting-cabin  at  the  foot  of  the  Last  Moun- 
tain. And  it  was  here  that  he  sought  refuge, 
and  ultimate  peace.  He  understood  that  if 
he  tilled  a  small  garden-patch,  and  subsisted 
partly  on  wild  roots  and  berries,  or  killed  a 
deer  occasionally,  he  could  get  along  all  right. 
He  was  of  stalwart  build,  on  the  sunny  side 
of  thirty;  life  would  have  been  no  problem 
if  he  could  rest  at  night.  Even  if  he  worked 
himself  into  a  state  of  exhaustion,  the  plead- 
ing voice  would  echo  through  his  tired  con- 
sciousness. The  old  desire  to  rush  out  into 


482  Tales  of  The 

the  open  would  overcome  him.  Once  outside 
he  would  see  the  ghost,  holding  the  gaping 
wound  on  the  neck  with  one  lean,  bony  hand. 
He  would  run  back  to  his  bunk,  to  hide  his 
head  beneath  the  buffalo  robe  until  daylight. 

He  shunned  everybody,  with  the  exception 
of  his  latest  benefactor,  Roan  McCann.  Evi- 
dently his  moral  nature  was  expanding;  ten 
years,  yes  five  years  before,  he  would  have 
turned  his  back  on  his  best  friend,  after  he 
had  gotten  all  he  could  out  of  him.  McCann 
was  somewhat  of  a  philosopher.  That  was 
another  new  attribute  which  seemed  to  find 
fallow  ground  in  him.  He  liked  McCann's 
philosophy,  because  he  pointed  out  the  possi- 
bility that  the  ghost  would  be  laid  some  day ; 
there  was  a  chance  of  surviving  it.  But 
neither  of  them  guessed  how  this  would  be 
accomplished.  The  laying  of  the  ghost  was 
the  one  ray  of  hope  in  the  repentent  mur- 
derer's dreary  routine  of  existence. 

What  a  long  story  of  distorted,  hideous 
nights  it  was,  always  followed  by  days 
marked  by  listlessness  and  exhaustion.  Small 
wonder  that  he  had  no  mood  for  visitors. 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  483 

Probably   many   hermits   see   ghosts,   hence 
their  exclusiveness. 

One  evening  before  the  old  man  went 
to  his  bunk,  he  was  sitting  outside  his 
cabin  door,  on  a  small  wooden  milking- 
stool  presented  to  him  by  one  of  McCann's 
daughters,  trying  to  count  up  the  years  since 
the  vindictive  ghost  had  rested  on  his  soul. 
Sixty-two  years  it  was  to  the  best  of  his  cal- 
culation, fifty  of  which  years  had  been  spent 
in  solitary  retreat  at  the  cabin  at  the  base  of 
the  Last  Mountain.  Below  him  several  miles 
away  he  could  make  out  a  light  or  two  in  the 
small  village  called  Hollidaysburg ;  it  was  the 
year  1830,  there  were  then  but  seventy-two 
souls  in  this  afterwards  prosperous  commun- 
ity. "What  a  wasted  time",  he  muttered  to 
himself,  "I  were  far  better  dead  than  buried 
alive  here".  Then  the  chilling  fear  ran 
through  him  that  he  might  have  to  live  for- 
ever, that  might  be  the  full  extent  of  the 
curse  upon  him.  He  reached  up  with  the 
fingers  of  his  left  hand  and  felt  the  deep 
scar  in  his  neck  where  he  had  shot  himself 
over  half  a  century  before.  And  he  thought 


484  Tales  of  The 

of  how  he  had  been  rescued  and  of  all  strange 
fates,  by  an  Indian,  from  the  mill  race  at 
William  McElhattan's  mill;  of  how  he  just 
didn't  die  after  the  savage  bite  from  the  cop- 
perhead. 

He  waited  until  the  last  light  was  extin- 
guished in  the  distant  village,  then  he  was 
ready  to  retire.  He  was  in  a  particularly 
melancholy  frame  of  mind  that  night.  A  bat, 
chasing  a  mosquito  rushed  into  the  open  door 
ahead  of  him,  he  struck  at  it  savagely  with 
his  ironwood  cane  as  it  darted  past  his  head. 
Despite  his  gloomy  reminiscences,  he  fell 
asleep  quickly.  It  must  have  been  midnight 
when  he  was  awakened  by  a  pressure  on  one 
of  his  hands.  He  rose  up,  rubbing  his  eyes. 
Moonlight  was  filtering  in  through  chinks  in 
the  roof,  and  from  under  the  door.  He  heard 
a  voice.  It  said  in  distinct,  measured  tones, 
"Oh  white  brother,  I  have  met  my  loved  one 
over  on  Shreiner's  Knob  to-night.  I  am  very 
happy,  I  have  found  that  this  is  the  next 
world,  it  was  near  to  me  all  the  time,  please 
come  outside  and  all  will  be  forgiven."  John 
Ironcutter  could  hardly  believe  his  senses ;  he 


Bald  Eagle  Mountains  485 

got  up  slower  this  time,  he  rubbed  his  hands 
over  the  buffalo  robe  to  make  sure  that  he 
was  not  dreaming.  He  pushed  open  the  door, 
and  looked  out.  On  the  sward  before  him, 
white  with  dew,  stood  two  figures,  arm  in 
arm. 

One  was  the  Indian  youth,  the  White 
Feather  whom  he  had  slain,  but  the  gaping 
wound  was  gone,  the  other  was  the  frail, 
beautiful  figure  of  a  savage  maiden.  When 
White  Feather  saw  his  old  foe,  he  raised  his 
right  hand,  and  made  several  antic  passes 
above  his  head.  Then  he  spoke.  "My  deliv- 
erance has  come,  after  sixty  weary  years, 
my  loved  one  crossed  into  our  world,  the 
spirit  world,  to-night.  She  had  waited  for 
me  every  evening,  in  moonlight  or  storm, 
since  the  night  she  expected  me,  when  you 
laid  me  low.  She,  too,  wanted  to  die,  but  she 
never  lost  faith,  or  believed  I  had  gone  off 
with  another.  Somehow  I  could  appear  to 
you,  to  torture  you,  but  I  could  not  visit  my 
loved  one,  and  tell  her  to  cease  her  solitary 
vigils,  that  death  would  unite  us.  I  suffered 
as  you  have  suffered,  above  all  as  she  has  suf- 


486  Tales  of  The 

fered.  But  now  she  has  crossed  over,  we 
are  one  for  such  time  as  the  Great  Spirit 
may  allow,  we  are  happy,  we  forgive  you. 
Farewell,  white  brother".  Then  the  two  fig- 
ures faded  away  into  the  white  dew  and  the 
moonbeams. 

Instead  of  feeling  frightened,  the  old  Ger- 
man experienced  a  sense  of  calm  and  peace 
such  as  had  not  been  his  portion  in  sixty-two 
long  years.  He  turned  about,  re-entering  his 
cabin.  Lying  down  on  his  bunk,  he  fell  into 
a  dreamless  sleep,  waking  in  the  morning, 
refreshed  and  rejuvenated.  It  was  as  if  he 
had  bathed  in  the  Fountain  of  Youth.  He 
felt  just  as  he  had  when  he  was  a  bright, 
ambitious  lad  of  nineteen  down  in  the  valley 
of  Middle  Creek.  During  the  morning  three 
small  children  passed  his  cabin  driving  the 
sheep  to  their  pastures  on  the  mountain  sides. 
Instead  of  turning  his  back,  he  called  to  them 
cheerily,  and  when  they  spoke  to  him,  he 
chatted  with  them  pleasantly.  At  noon  two 
fox-hunters  chanced  his  way.  He  greeted 
them  genially,  and  asked  them  to  partake 
of  his  simple  meal. 


Tales  of  The  Bald  Eagle  Mountains  487 

In  the  afternoon  Roan  McCann  rode  up  on 
horseback;  he  was  surprised  to  see  the  al- 
tered appearance  of  his  dependent.  "Oh 
John,  you  look  fifty  years  younger",  was  his 
sincere  exclamation.  Old  John  explained 
what  had  happened  as  quickly  as  he  could. 
"Your  prophecy  was  correct,  the  ghost  has 
been  laid,  I  can  now  spend  my  declining 
days  in  peace."  Roan  drew  a  bottle  of  moun- 
tain-still whiskey  from  his  saddle-bag.  "Let 
us  celebrate  this  day,  let  there  be  many  more 
of  them".  Ironcutter  passed  an  evening  such 
as  he  had  not  known  since  youth,  an  evening 
of  song,  stories,  and  cheer.  When  he  re- 
tired that  night,  his  sleep  was  absolutely 
dreamless.  A  new  era  had  come  for  him, 
he  was  spared  ten  years  to  enjoy  it. 

When  he  died,  a  goodly  array  of  moun- 
taineers followed  his  remains  to  the  tonrn, 
"It  must  have  been  all  a  mistake  about  his 
having  been  the  Indian  killer",  said  the  trav- 
elling preacher,  as  he  watched  the  last  spade- 
fulls  of  dirt  thrown  in  the  grave,  "the  de- 
ceased was  a  grand  old  gentleman,  he 
wouldn't  have  killed  a  fly". 


APPENDIX 


Appendix  A  see  page  103 

A  man  named  George  A.  Schifctenk  is  said  to  have 
killed  a  genuine  brown  bear,  weighing  three  hundred 
pounds,  not  a  color  phase  of  the  black  bear,  as  at  first 
reported,  near  Carroll,  Clinton  County,  Pa.,  on  Nov. 
SQ  1912. 

Appendix  B  see  page  394 

When  a  few  days  later  the  author  had   a   look   at 
the  Dorman  panther  in  the  natural  history  museum 
at  the  Albright  College,  Myerstown,  Pa.,  the  following 
lines  shaped  themselves  in  his  mind: 
At  twilight  when  the  shadows  flit, 
Within  the  ancient  museum  I  sit, 
Gazing  through  the  dust-encrusted  glass 
(While  hosts  of  savage  memories  pass,) 
At  your  efflgy,  ludicrously  stuffed 
The  fulvous  color  faded,  the  paws  all  puffed, 
The  bullet-holes  in  jowl  and  side 
Tell  where  your  life-blood  ebbed  like  some  red  tide; 
A  streak  of  light — the  last  of  day 
Gleams  through  a  window  on  your  muzzle  gray, 
And  lights  your  glassy  eyes  with  garnet  fire 
You  almost  stir  those  orbs  in  fretful  ire 
Which  gape  into  the  sunset's  dying  flame 
Towards  the  wild  mountains  whence  you  came: 
Revives  old  images  that  dormant  lie — 
Outside  the  wind  is  raising  to  a  sigh 
Like  oft  you  voiced  in  the  primeval  wood      » 
In  your  life's  pilgrimage,  I'd  trace  it  if  I  could 
In  white  pine  forests,  tops  trembling  in  the  breeze, 
Like  restless  sable-colored  seas, 
Beneath,  in  rhododendron  thickets  high, 

489 


You  crouched  until  your  prey  came  by, 

Grouse,  or  startled  fawn,  or,  even  fisher-fox 

You  rent,  and  then  slunk  back  into  the  rocks, 

And  on   the  wintry  nights,    lit   by   the   cloud-swept 

moon 

Your  wailing  to  the  music  of  the  spheres  atune, 
Rose  to  a  roar  which  echoed  over  all 
Beside  which  wolves'  lamenting  to  a  treble  fall; 
And  through   the   snows  your  mate   so   slim   draws 

nigh 

Noiselessly,  with  strange  love-light  in  her  eye 
You  lick  her  coat,  and  stroke  her  with  your  tail, 
Whispering  a  love-song  weirdsome  as  the  gale, 
You  leave  her  with  a  last  long  fond  caress 
Adown  the  glen  you  go  in  stealthiness, 
....  A  loud  report!  another!  how  you  leap, 
With  a  resounding  thud  into  the  snow  you  fall  asleep, 
Your  blood-stained  hide  the  hunter  bears  away, 
The  virile  emblem  of  an  ampler  day, 
Your  enemy,  the  golden  eagle  picks  your  carcass  dry, 
Wild  morning  glories  trellice  on  your  ribs  awry; 
Your  meaning  is  a  deep  one — while  your  kind  live, 

men  will  rule, 

There  will  be  less  of  weakling,  runt,  or  fool, 
No  enervation  will  our  rugged  courage  sap, 
We  will  not  dawdle  on  plump  luxury's  lap, 
But  as  your  race  declines,  so  dwindles  man, 
The  painted  cheek  replaces  coat  of  tan, 
And  marble  halls,  and  beds  of  cloth  of  gold, 
Succeed  the  log-cabins  of  the  days  of  old; 
When  the  last  panther  falls  then  woe  betide, 
Nature's  retributive  cataclysm  is  at  our  side, 
Our  boasted  civilization,  then  will  be  no  more, 
Fresh  forms  must  come  from  out  the  Celestial  store. 

Nov.  6,  1912. 
490 


INDEX 

Page 

Argument 13 

I  Birth  of  the  Bald  Eagles 21 

II  The  Siren 40 

III  The  Red  Fox 60 

IV  The  View  Tree 83 

V  The  Brown  Bear 102 

VI  Old  Philippe 118 

VII  King  Wi-daagh's  Spell 137 

VIII  Caves  of  the  Bald  Eagles 156 

IX  Pathfinder's  Child 173 

X  Conrad's  Broom 190 

XI  The  Giantess 208 

XII  Mary  Goes  Over  the  Mountain 243 

XIII  The  Fate  of  Atoka 224 

XIV  For  the  Glory  of  Indian  Summer 262 

XV  The  Lost  Chord 283 

XVI  Bald  Eagle's  Nest 311 

XVII  The  Running  Race 332 

XVIII  Two  Roses 356 

XIX  The  Sorceress 379 

XX  Unrequited     402 

XXI  Before  the  Fire     421 

XXII  Simpler's  Joy 445 

XXIII  Ironcutter's  Cabin 469 

ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  Gap  at  McElhattan  (Frontispiece) 

Among  the  Giant  Pines 

In  a  Pennsylvania  Pine  Forest 

The  Flight  of  the  Wild  Pigeons 

The  Meeting  of  the  Waters 

A  Bald  Eagle  Mountain  Landscape 

The  Golden  Hour  at  the  Camp 

A  Distant  View  of  the  Bald  Eagles 

A  Picnic  in  the  Woods 

The  River  and  the  Round  Top 

The  New  Bridge  near  McElhattan 

Cover  designs,  head-piece  and  tail-piece  by  Miss  Katha- 
rine H.  McCormick.  Philadelphia,  Pa. 


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